I’ve had a little crush on my barista for a while now, but I always figured it was like crushing on your therapist: it just comes with the territory. It never occurred to me to make a move on Becky, partly because she’s like 15 years younger than me (42M). It also never occurred to me that she might want me to, probably for the same reason.

Also, she’s pretty hot.

Medium height, brown hair in a perfect Dorothy Hamill bob, heart-shaped face, brown eyes, tattoos snaking down her arms. She’s got C-Cup tits with that perfect little bohemian droop, a powerful torso and the hip crease in her tight jeans that drives me nuts. Her ass goes with her powerful hips and legs. Some might call Becky thicc, and maybe she is, but I also wouldn’t displace a cell on her very functional body.

I think a lot of customers at the shop are afraid of her. Co-workers too. She’s really direct, and doesn’t suffer fools silently. She’s never rude, just really efficient, and never what you would call friendly. Except with me. She’s always been nice as pie to me, bantering and flirting like a regular person with normal, imperfect efficiency. 

And here’s where I’m the obliviot. I’m not particularly special, but I try to cut as dashing a figure as possible. I dress well, I work out, I’m as kind as I can authentically be to everybody, especially those with shitter work than mine. I didn’t realize this was enough to earn a raging crush, but then I look around at the way people treat each other, and maybe I’m not that surprised.

In any case, I had no idea that Becky even knew who I was until I came into the shop in the afternoon a few weeks ago, instead of the morning. It was quieter, and I heard somebody from behind the bar say, “Your guy’s here, Beck.”

I didn’t even have time to process this new information before I was looking her in the face, and to be honest, it seemed like she’d been through the wringer. There were a couple of hairs out of place, an extra flush to her rosy cheeks, and a deer-in-the-headlghts stare. She was wearing a tight black-and-white, horizontal-striped top that made it hard to look away from her chest. I did my best.

“Could I please have a large chai,” I said. “Tough shift?”

She turned away to steam the milk, and looked back over her shoulder, her round, denim-sheathed ass staring right at me.

“Nothing that a good hard fuck wouldn’t fix,” she said.

Say what? I hesitated, and she backtracked.

“Sorry, did I say that out loud?” she said, even more color flooding her cheeks. “Don’t mind me, just making coffee, tra-la-la…”

I found my breath just in time to reply, “Sounds like a problem with a solution. Lemme know if I can help.”

I saw her pause with her back to me, eyes closed, and gently bang her forehead repeatedly against the cappuccino machine. When she finally turned around with the drink a moment later, her flushed face had a smile, and she winked as she slid the cup across the counter.

“Thanks, Will,” she said. “You always make me feel better.”

“Glad to help,” I replied, and took my drink. Becky motioned one of her co-workers to take her place at the counter and walked toward the back of the store. I found a table, sort of hoping she would come out and chat. That had never happened before, but I sensed that we were very much off-script already, and I wondered what might be next.

Then I saw the cup.

Instead of my name, Becky had written, “Back bathroom, 10 min, 3 knocks.”

Those were just about the longest eight minutes of my life. Thank god for my phone, I was able to seem busy. My heart was pounding when I left the main room for the hallway with the restrooms, walked to the furthest door, and knocked three times.

I heard the door unlock, and nothing else.

So I turned the knob, opened the door, and found Becky bottomless, her tight top actually a bodysuit, the gusset undone. She was sitting on the sink, her spread legs cradling the porcelain, whaling on her clit like she was scrubbing a blood stain from a carpet. She had a half moon tattoo just to the left of her neatly trimmed pubic hair, and some kind of sunburst on her left thigh. Her pussy was glistening and angry from her attention, and the air was perfumed with her arousal.

“I already came once,” she said, breathlessly. “You’re already my best lover in like three years. Can I see your cock?”

Direct as always, I thought, as I worked to free myself. I stood before her fully clothed except for my dick. The feeling of cool air on private skin in the presence of a strange woman made my senses razor sharp. The restroom was small, and she should almost grab my erection from her perch. But grabbing was not Becky’s objective. She dropped from the sink to her knees in front of me and cradled my growing member to her face. 

“Is it what you expected?” I asked, as she breathed hotly on my glans, and eased my pants and underwear to my knees.

“Even better,” she said, before licking me from root to tip. “I figured you were probably big, but so thick… I can’t believe this is finally happening.”

Becky inhaled my cock, nearly eight inches, straight down her warm throat. I’ve never felt anything like it before, and I could feel my hardon swell in those tight, wet confines. I reflexively thrust once, and she gagged, eyes watering, and slid me deliciously out. My cock was covered with her saliva, and she went to work on my shaft with both of her hands.

“Oh, God, Becky,” I said. “How are you so good at this?”

She laughed, and said. “Do you really want me to answer?” Then she moved one hand to my balls and wrapped her lips around my flared cockhead.

“It definitely does not matter,” I said. Nothing at all mattered at that moment. Not the election, not climate change, not earthquakes or famine or human rights atrocities or championship finals, prying ears or rational thought. Only Becky’s mouth, her hands, and the body and mind they were attached to. I ran my fingers through her hair as she bobbed, mussing her perfect haircut.

Suddenly, she drew my dick from her lips, still stroking, and appraised her handiwork.

“Yeah, that’ll do just fine,” she said, and stood up, turned her back to me, and faced the mirror above the sink. Her brown eyes bored into mine through the reflection.

“I took my bra off because I know you like my tits,” she said, taking my hand and placing it on her left breast. I felt her nipple stiffen under the thin fabric of her top, and saw her smirk when I pinched it. “I have this bra that’s too small and sometimes I just wear it anyway, because then you always notice… I really like it when you notice.”

“Fuck, Becky, your tits are perfect,” I said, bringing my other hand up to her right breast and pulling her back into my erection. “Your whole body is perfect.” I felt my cock settle into the groove of her ass cheeks, and she ground back against me.

“Use a condom if you want, but I have an IUD,” she said. “I’m so ready for you…”

I made no move to disengage.

“Once you start,” she said, “don’t you dare stop fucking me until you come. Do. Not. Stop.

“And don’t be gentle. We don’t even know each other,”

It was true. We had such a limited slivers of insight into each other, and even now, on the edge of penetration, it was our reflections that spoke to one another, not even our real selves.

“If you want me to stop,” I said, “just call me William.”

“Okay,” she replied. “But I won’t.”

She placed her hands on the sink in an unmistakable gesture of invitation, and the reflection of her gaze focused on mine. Her breathing slowed and deepened, and my wandering cock encountered the notch of her entrance. She went up on tiptoe, but the angle remained difficult.

“Shit, hold on,” she said, and climbed off of my penis. I got to watch the muscles of her hips, legs and ass move like I had seen them do so many times behind a denim veil, and the real thing was so much sexier. She rummaged in her pile of clothes for the platform Doc Martens that she’d been wearing, and pulled them on unlaced. I stroked myself, and unbuttoned my shirt so it wouldn’t get in the way,

Becky resumed her place at the mirror. Gone was the angry, defiant stare, replaced by an open smile, and open excitement.

Hands back on the sink, she heaved a sighing, “Okay,” and I leaned into her, burying half my dick in one thrust. In one instant, I left the soaked surface of her, bored through the tightness just below, and broke into the deep, hot wetness beneath. She immediately fucked me back,  and three strokes later I was sunk to the root.

My hands grasped Becky’s ample hips for leverage, then I reached one back to her breast, squeezing it and pinching her taut nipple.

“Oh God I’m so full,” she cried. It sounded like she was in pain but her body kept fucking me back, so I kept fucking her. I worried that the sink would break away from the wall from the weight, but she added a knee to both her hands to open herself wider, the unlaced boot clumping to the floor. I felt her trying to speak the word “harder,” but over and over again, the sound was interrupted by a gasp of pain/pleasure. So what came out was, “Ha, har, har, ha, hard, hard, harder!” After a few minutes – or 10 minutes, or 30 seconds, who could say – her urges of “harder” turned to cries of “yes, yes, yes, right, fucking, there, yes, I’m, going, to…”

And then Becky came. And with no thought at all of trying to prolong this ecstatic experience, I also came, pouring myself into her. Her body clenched with orgasm, and then collapsed onto the sink, as my own tension pulsed out of my cock and to the doorstep of her medically disinterested womb. I don’t know how I stayed upright, because I thought I was going to faint, and did not care at all.

Sensing that gentleness had regained some standing, I gave Becky’s gorgeous breast one final, loving caress and leaned back, my spent cock slipping out of her, and her feet – one booted, one bare – finding the restroom floor again. When she turned around, she was a girl, weirdly smiling. I held my ground in her personal space for a moment, before stepping back to pull up my underwear and trousers.

“Don’t forget to button your shirt,” she said, by way of farewell. Standing there in her undone bodysuit and one platform Doc, she reached up to gently pat one cheek, and plant a chaste kiss on the other, like an old friend would. Then she turned away, toward her heap of clothes.

What was I to do? No idea. But in moments when I don’t know what to do, I’ve had a lot of luck with nothing. So I buttoned, zipped and buckled myself back up, and left the restroom. My chai was sitting just where I’d left it, only a little colder than before. I made eye contact with no one, grabbed the cup on my unhurried way to the door, and burst back into the sunny afternoon.

***

It took me a couple days to go back, and when I did, Becky treated me the same as she always has. It was the morning rush. When she took my order, she said, “I’m sorry, we only have to-go cups today.” Which was strange, because this coffeeshop only ever had to-go cups, never giving customers actual dishes of any kind.

We fell back into the old patterns of banter and flirting – maybe a little more intense and less silly than before – until I happened into the shop one afternoon last week. I ordered a hot cocoa, and as she rang it up she said, “For here or to go?”

Puzzled, I said, “For here?” and Becky smirked, with a barely perceptible nod. And she blushed.

A few minutes later, she said my name aloud, made eye contact, placed the cup on the counter and walked away. I picked it up and saw what she’d written: “BBath/5m/4K.”