Author's note:
I've vacillated on whether or not to submit this story. This one is pretty filthy, but I hope I've done it service by providing adequate context.
As a straight man, I always wonder how my perspective will be received by women. I know this story contains some elements many women might find distasteful. In fact, I only personally know one woman who has openly enjoyed these things. In light of this, I'm including all of the tags I used, so that you can scan through them before deciding whether you want to commit your time to reading.
Tags: blow job, cum, cunnilingus, edging, facial, pussy eating, pussy licking, teasing, younger woman, older man
As always, I appreciate feedback. Thank you for reading.
........
Shortly after my divorce I regularly found myself in a coffee shop near my house. I often needed to get out of my home studio to let the creative process breathe. The coffee shop was a serviceable place to respond to emails or simply relax and read news or books.
Shelly was a barista at the shop. I'd known her for several years through our mutual involvement in local music. We both played in offbeat bands and had frequently performed at the same shows. I admired her creativity and skill as a musician, and I'd like to think this respect was mutual. We weren't close, but I enjoyed chatting with her when I had the chance. She seemed to genuinely appreciate it when I spoke kindly of her music. I was careful about this, because male musicians can often be condescending or patronizing when talking about female musicians. There was a real element of misogyny in music. I wanted to communicate my sincere appreciation without leaving any room for it to be interpreted as a backhanded compliment.
Shelly and I flirted a little when I visited the café. I enjoyed her attention, but didn't know what to make of it. She was thirteen years younger than me. She was very beautiful and unrelentingly cool. She had tattoos and shoulder length jet black hair with severe bangs cut straight across her forehead. She often wore her hair in a high ponytail to show off the tattoo on the back of her neck. She also liked to wear bright red lipstick which I found irresistible. But I was less trendy. I didn't take her flirtation seriously. I thought she was out of my league, and truthfully I had no game. After a long marriage and being recently divorced, I didn't think women saw me as attractive, especially not beautiful younger women who could presumably have anyone they wanted. And I didn't even know if Shelly dated men, so I dismissed her attention as unserious.
Regardless, I was flattered by Shelly's flirting and we gradually got to know each other well, little by little as time elapsed.
Since I was a regular at the shop, Shelly knew my usual order. If it was busy when I arrived, I'd find a seat and simply wait for the rush to be over before approaching the counter. At some point Shelly noticed this, and instead of waiting for me to come up to the counter to order, she started bringing me a coffee when she had time. I loved it when she had time to sit down and talk, either on her break or just when the café was slow. This became a common occurrence. They were like mini coffee dates, not ostensibly romantic, but intimate in their own way. Sometimes I'd wait for a half hour or forty-five minutes before she brought my coffee, but I was never in a hurry. I specifically went to the café to relax. I was capable of making good coffee at home. It was less about the coffee and more about taking a break from my studio. And I enjoyed talking to Shelly immensely.
One day, after the lunch rush had dissipated, Shelly approached with my coffee in hand.
"You're very patient," she said with a grin.
She didn't sit down to join me like she usually did. Instead, she set my coffee on the table along with a napkin. I watched as she slid the napkin toward me slowly then lifted her hand, straightened up rigidly with her hands clenched together at her waist, spun away from me, and walked stiffly back to the counter across the room.
I looked down at the napkin and realized she'd written her phone number on it. I questioned her intentions momentarily, but decided she must have given me her number because she wanted me to ask her out. After another round of second guessing my intuition, I looked back up in search of a definitive signal, but she wasn't looking in my direction. I entered her info into my phone and texted her my name and a short message so she'd have my info, but I decided I wouldn't play the texting game.
When I was confident Shelly was no longer busy with customers I approached the counter.
"Hey, Shelly," I said as she looked up at me.
"Hey," she replied.
"Do you want to go to a show tonight?"
"Uh huh," she nodded smiling.
We made plans to meet at a rock club downtown later that evening. We both personally knew all the bands performing, and it was a very familiar environment for both of us.
When I arrived at the club Shelly was already waiting for me outside. She smiled and waved as I approached. She was wearing a short denim jacket adorned by band buttons - badges as they're called in the UK. Underneath she wore a loose fitting white t-shirt tied in a knot at the waist. It was silkscreened with the name of a local band and an image of a cat. It dropped at the collar and I could see the straps of her black tank top beneath. Her pants were very tight leggings that showed off her long thin legs, slowly tapering to her black boots.
"Aloha," she said, grabbing my hand.
We entered the building holding hands and found two seats at the bar near the back of the club and as far from the music as possible. It seemed silly to come to a rock show to talk, but that's what we did. We shared a pitcher of beer and sat on our barstools facing each other, leaning in to hear our conversation. It was delightful. We talked and laughed. I tingled every time she pressed her lips to my ear to tell me something she didn't want to shout for others to hear.
Despite her timid approach at the coffee shop, Shelly was not shy. She was quite the opposite. As we chatted she made the first physical gestures of affection, sliding her hand over my knee and grabbing my wrist as she became animated telling me a story. She grew increasingly handsy as we talked, and I enjoyed her touches. I found myself returning her affection unselfconsciously. She made the physical contact feel natural and comfortable. I reached down and slid my hand behind her knee, gently massaging her calf muscle. Her hand migrated further up my thigh. Things were escalating a little too quickly and I wondered if I should back off.
Halfway through the show she paused, then spoke into my ear. "I really want to invite you to my place. I live like two blocks from here." She paused again hesitantly. "But I guess I should just tell you this. I don't want to have sex."
She looked at me expectantly, possibly wondering if this boundary was a dealbreaker for me.
"I understand," I said. "I'm really enjoying our conversation. There's no pressure to do anything physical. Truly. I'd love to come over and just talk," I replied sincerely.
I wasn't expecting sex. This was a first date, and had already become much more physical than I expected. It had been a long time since I'd even been on a date, let alone had sex with a woman. I was still trying to understand how I might feel about initiating a physical relationship with someone new, so I appreciated her setting this boundary and being clear. It made me feel more comfortable knowing sex was off the table.
"Okay, great! Let's get the hell out of here!" She said smiling.
We walked the two blocks to her apartment holding hands. It felt exciting and sweet. We ascended the stairs to the second floor and entered. Her apartment opened to the kitchen and then to a living room with two adjoining bedrooms and a single bathroom. It was a fairly small apartment that looked like it was furnished almost exclusively by IKEA. It was clean and trendy. It had been years since I lived in an apartment. I had purchased my first home when I was twenty-nine. Being in her apartment reminded me of our age difference, which I'd been able to forget up until this point.
Shelly went to the fridge and retrieved two bottles of beer and I followed her through the living room where her roommate was lying on the couch watching TV.
"Hi, Caro," I said.
"Hey, hey," she replied apathetically.
Caro was one of Shelly's band mates. I knew her through the music scene as well. She didn't seem surprised to see me or care that I was in their apartment.
"If you're going to fuck, keep it down," she called after us tauntingly as we entered Shelly's room and closed the door.
Shelly's room was neatly organized and clean. She had art on her walls, but not much else other than a queen bed, a dresser, and an air purifier.
Shelly kicked off her boots and flopped down on her bed, leaning back against the large plush bolster in front of the headboard.
"Here," she said, handing me a beer.
