COFFEE AND CREAM by K. Nitsua. Revised version copyright 2008 by the author.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Another former print story of mine, back in a revised version.
I went to college at a large state university and when I graduated I was lucky enough to get an entry-level position with a local company. I loved my job, though it meant putting on a tie to go to work. I was twenty-two years old, upwardly mobile, with a nice place, a good income, and no one to share my good fortune.
Don't get me wrong. I wasn't desperate. I'd come out in my sophomore year and was comfortable with my gay self. Not that I was standing on the street corner shouting the news, but I wasn't trying to hide it either. I worked out, without becoming a gym rat. I went out, without becoming a bar fly. Things were out of control in only one area of my life. Years of late-night studying in college had left me hopelessly, incurably addicted to caffeine.
Last summer a new coffeehouse opened on my daily route to work. This was a godsend, not least because whoever owned the place had to be gay. How could I tell? Well, the staff was all male, breathtaking to look at, and free of attitude-a gay coffee lover's wet dream.
It wasn't a queer java hut, though. The place was in one of the tonier neighborhoods in this city, and it drew an upscale crowd, mostly straight yuppies. Not that the young husbands and fathers who came in for their caffeine fixes weren't worth looking at. Often I wasn't sure who to check out while I waited in line, the counter boys or the customers.
During the week I never hung out there, having only time to dash in and dash out. Sometimes on the weekends I would go, sit in one of the overstuffed armchairs and read the paper while sipping my espresso. One Saturday morning in September I was doing just that. After a while I got bored and looked around the room.
The place was empty except for one man sitting opposite me at a table against the wall. He was reading the paper too, dressed in the neighborhood's standard leisure ensemble: T-shirt, sneakers, and running shorts, the kind whose legs were split up the side for extra freedom and skin exposure. He was about my age, lean and lanky, legs corded with muscle. His dark wavy hair fell over a strong, square-jawed face, serious in expression as he studied the headlines. I turned my attention to my favorite part of the male body. I notice arms, especially forearms. The pair that held that paper was as ripped as his legs. The only disappointing thing was the glint of a gold wedding band on his hand.
So he was married-that didn't mean I couldn't look and enjoy. As I watched he shifted positions, raising his leg and putting the ankle on his other knee. The vent of his running shorts on that side fell open, exposing part of his butt and a narrow elastic band crossing it-he was wearing a jockstrap. My cock leapt up in my jeans at the delicious sight and I had to shift positions myself to relieve the pressure. My breathing quickened and I felt the pre-cum start to flow.
At that moment, the married hunk looked up and caught me square in the act of checking him out. I thrust the paper up to cover my face, succeeding only in making my wandering eye more obvious. My cheeks were flaming behind my newsprint screen. I thought about just jumping up and getting the hell out of there before he came over and confronted me.
I sat frozen in that position until my muscles began to ache. Nothing happened and finally I decided I was being ridiculous. I let the paper drop slightly in my hands so I could see over it.
The handsome man was still there, still reading. Now, though, he was facing in my direction, leaning against the wall with legs slightly apart. I had a perfect view of what was inside his shorts-strong, hairy thighs and, further inside, the pouch of his jock, stretched full by its contents. The next moment one sinewy hand wandered into the picture and stopped, cupping the swelling mound in dark blue nylon.
I looked up, startled. The guy locked eyes with me and gave a slight, almost invisible nod. My heart was thudding as I cast a glance around. No one else was nearby. The counter help had gone in the back for a break. I fixed my gaze on him and nodded in response.
He put his paper on the table, stood, and stretched, the picture of casualness. Then he strolled into a narrow hallway at the back, where the restrooms were located. I didn't take my eyes off him for one second. Just before opening the door to the men's room he glanced back over one broad shoulder, reached down and hiked up one side of his running shorts, baring one dimpled butt cheek framed by the strap of his jock. The devil.
I forced myself to wait a minute after he disappeared inside. Then I got up and walked toward the back myself, my erection a hard, insistent ache in my bulging jeans. At the door to the john I looked back one last time. All clear. I pushed the handle down and walked in.
It was a single-occupancy restroom with a toilet, sink and urinal, filled with the artificial perfume of air freshener. My man was standing at the urinal, his back to me, one arm moving. He turned as I shot the deadbolt. For the moment we were safe.
He had pushed his shorts and jock down in front. His long, cut cock, half hard from his stroking it, jutted out above a pair of round tight balls. In a flash I was on my knees in front of him, peeling his gear down his thighs. I grabbed his cheeks and took his pole into my mouth, coaxing it to full erection.
He sighed and ran his hands through my hair. "That's nice," he said in a low voice. I made what sounds I could to indicate agreement. I was fucking turned on. Nothing like doing a hot hunk in a public place to get your juices flowing.
After a while, to my surprise, he pulled me to my feet. I had figured a married man would only want to be serviced, but I was wrong. He knelt, unbuttoned my fly, pulled my cock out and went to work like a pro. His bottomless hot throat and agile tongue had me at the edge in moments. To head off the explosion I pulled back out of range.
"What's the matter?" he asked, panting.
It took a moment to collect my thoughts. "I-I didn't want to cum in your mouth."
White teeth flashed in a charming, astonishing grin. "Why not? That's the best part."
Again I was amazed. "You really want me to?"
"Sure. I love it. Let me taste you." He grabbed my butt and engulfed me again with his mouth. His other hand jerked his cock, lubed with my spit.
"Uh, buddy, oh jeez... oh shit... oh... FUCK I'M GONNA SHOOT..."
My body jackknifed and my knees buckled as the orgasm raced up from my crotch and exploded in my brain. My hands clamped around his head in a death grip as I fired bullets of hot liquid down his throat. I heard gulping noises below me as he swallowed.
Still gasping, I forced my eyes open and looked down. He had let go of my cock and thrown his head back, his mouth open, his eyes closed. His own organ was still hard as a rock between his thighs.
Before my better judgment kicked in I got him to stand up and hit the floor again. I took him into my mouth and began to suck fast and hard, using as much spit and pressure as I could. It took only a minute for his breathing to quicken and deepen into rhythmic grunts as his cock came to life, filling my mouth with his hot salty juice. When he was finished shooting I stood on stiff legs. The reality of the situation hit us. As fast as we could we cleaned ourselves off and stuffed ourselves back into our clothes. We washed our hands and faces, wiped up and flushed the evidence down the toilet. Finally we stood facing one another. My partner in public sex looked relaxed and happy. He stuck out a big, warm hand and I shook it.
"Thanks, man. I really needed that."
"Guess you don't get enough at home." I blushed at how tacky that sounded but he just laughed.
"It's that obvious, huh?"
I was kicking myself. "Forget I said that, I'm sorry."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it." He turned and unlocked the door, opened it a crack and peered out. He gave me a conspiratorial wink. "Give me a minute, OK?"
"Sure."
