Starbucks:
Are you in there? I text.
This Starbucks coffee shop is the same as all the others - round wooden tables, specials scrawled on the chalkboard, bunches of slightly-stale cakes behind polished glass. Scraggly men typing on Apple computers, housewives nursing espressos. The usual afternoon crowd.
I probably could pick you out of the crowd if I had to, though I've never seen you. Just blurry pictures texted to each other, half-naked, mouths open. We have never met, though we've been texting increasingly elaborate fantasies to each other during the days, sometimes knowing you're typing with one hand while your fingers are sunk deep into your pussy.
I'm here, you text back. I don't bother to look over the crowd. You're not there.
You're in the bathroom.
I feel that squirm of anticipation in my gut, that teenaged thrill that this could go so horribly wrong. I know you. But I have never heard your voice, never seen your face with my own eyes, have no idea of your scent.
You are on your knees in the bathroom, one hand on the lock. Mouth open.
The first time I meet you will be the time I slide my cock into your willing mouth.
You ready?
There's a pause before your response, one that makes me suppress a quiver of fear. But then:
Yes
I walk to the men's bathroom, trying to appear casual. Thank God, it's the mid-afternoon and the cafe is relatively unpopulated. No one else is waiting. I knock twice - the signal - and then hear you unlatch the door.
I step in. It's a little more awkward than I thought - you're on your knees, so you have to sort of leap back from the doorway so I can slide in and shut the door behind me. I lock it, quickly. Then I look down at you, fully clothed, wearing jeans and a blouse shirt, nothing to mark you as different from any Starbucks customer except that you're kneeling to suck the cock of a stranger.
You're prettier than your pictures.
Your eyes are more eager.
Your mouth, open and ready, is so slutty and wet.
I clear my throat, almost saying something - but that would break the mood. We'd determined that I am going to fuck your face before any real-life introductions are made. You give me a clear-eyed stare, a little glazed with lust, your wide whorish "O" of a fuckhole turned up at the corners with the slightest grin of expectation.
I unbuckle my pants.
I pull out my cock.
And I slowly push it into your mouth.
It's soft at first, because I'm nervous - but it swells the instant it's enclosed in the silken warmth of your mouth, me moaning as I pull you against me, my knees buckling as you flutter that talented tongue on the underside of my glans. I can hear you making muffled noises of pleasure as you greedily take my whole thick cock in, moaning as you realize what a slutty bitch you are, feeling the salt taste of my precum on your tongue as you start sucking me deep behind a locked door.
Nobody knows what a slut you are.
But they could find out so easily.
I stiffen, starting to thrust deeper into your mouth, needing you more. Your saliva-slicked hand grips my shaft, pumping me hard, your fingers dropping down to milk my balls, tugging at them gently. You run your lips along the underside of my cock, needing to taste every inch of it, exulting in the feel of it throbbing against your cheek.
You're drunk on cock, slurping so loud anyone outside could hear you, lost in giving head. Your knees hurt on the cold tile, but you don't care. My hand on the back of your neck is pure gratitude, the subtle pressure telling you not to stop, telling you how good this is, muttering praise at what a talented girl you are, letting you know that this is what you're born to do, God, if there was a girl who was going to blow a guy she met on the Internet in a bathroom, then that girl was so good at sucking cock she'd make any man grateful he took the risk.
You pull your panties down, start fingering yourself, the scent of your excitement filling the room, wreathing that bathroom in the perfect scent of cunt, saliva dripping out of your mouth to spatter on the floor. Your fingers rub your clit in excited circles, glistening wet...
...and I can't take it. I yank you to your feet, fling you over the sink, tug your pants all the way down, ass exposed.
I make you look at me in the mirror. I want to see the expression as I first sink my cock into you. I rub the head of my cock against your clit, feeling you moan and grind back against me, fucking the air, so incredibly eager. And I grab your hair, just pulling slightly enough that you have to look into the mirror....
...and I fill your slick cunt with thick cock.
Your eyes roll back in your head.
I start fucking you, slow and steady, clamping my hand over your mouth so the cashier can't hear your cries. I'm in you balls-deep, grinding slow, feeling you twitch underneath me, moving with your rhythm so that one orgasm feeds the next, each building, occasionally stopping to shove my dick all the way into you to appreciate the feel of being completely engulfed in you. You freeze, then make little whimpering noises, wriggling to get more friction, and then I lose control and fuck you hard, slamming you up against the porcelain.
I start making little growling noises at the back of my throat. I've told you that's the sign that I'm going to come. And so you're ready when I pull you off the sink, you twirling around to sit on your ass, jerking my twitching cock with both hands, flutter-tonguing the tip as I moan and spurt thick ropes of cum all over your beautiful face, swallowing back growls, reaching down to rub my scent all over you, making your cheeks sticky with my semen, grinding it into your pores.
I stand over you, breathing hoarsely, looking down at the mess of your face. You look up.
I tuck my cock away and buckle my pants. Then I leave.
You wash up as best you can - at least without destroying the glorious sluttiness of being covered in a stranger's cum. You want to keep that for a while, but not enough that you want the whole Starbucks world to see. You pull up your pants, surprised at how soaked your panties are, and emerge into the Starbucks.
Shaggy hipsters are still typing. Moms are still texting on their iPhones. The only difference is me, waving you over to a table, pushing the drink that I know you liked over to your side.
"So," I smile. "It's nice to meet you."
