I was a very late bloomer. Which is to say, throughout high school I looked like a tall skinny boy. I was as far away from 36-24-36 as Iowa is from Australia.
But now I am as fetching as a Porsche 911...with the headlights and all the gorgeous curves that a man has dreamt about driving cross-country since he was a little boy...
The truth is, I finally have a killer feminine physique, and I want to enjoy it to the fullest. But guys my age don't interest me at all--so shallow and too juvenal. But, you, are a real man--one who has lived and has experienced life, and knows how to pleasure a woman if she deserves it.
I started working at your coffee shop a month ago. Since then, we've seen each other every morning Mon thru Fri. You wear a business suit; though what you do for a living is a mystery.
It sure isn't the hell being a detective though...because I've been leaving clues for you since we first met--no, I don't draw little hearts on every customer's cup. I've just recently celebrated my 24th birthday...you are twice my age. Maybe that's the reason?
But somehow, I don't think so. Maybe it's all the mandatory sexual harassment training you're required to do every quarter of every year? I could test that theory...but blue-collar workers don't frequent my hip café.
Why would they want to be asked follow-up questions: "Was that 'real milk' or 'almond milk' or 'cashew milk' or 'lemongrass essence of milk' that you wanted?"
Our second month together, you hand me a cash tip instead of just throwing it in the jar that sits prominently besides the register. I gush 'thanks' then yell out 'big tipper!' before I toss it in the communal pot. Everyone working looks at you to cheer and offer up a salute of gratitude.
That bucks you up...
A couple days later, you toss an even larger tip directly into the jar, though you make sure I witness your generosity. No worries, I lean in towards you to ensure you get the full view of my amazing cleavage.
That seems to paralyze you a bit...but then you finally work up the courage to ask me my name. "Jocelyn...though you can call me Joss" is the friendly reply I deliver along with a smile designed to melt your heart.
Now at work, you try to focus on the task at hand but I'm dominating your thoughts... you marvel at the fact that I don't wear make-up...that I'm clearly an adherent of a 'my tits are so firm that I'm not wearing a bra' school of philosophy. More than that...when I had told you my name, my lips were hypnotizing-- full...soft...inviting.
You tell your secretary to hold all your calls, then you lock your door. You carefully take off your suit and carefully drape it over your chair. Then you close your eyes, drop to your knees, and begin to replay the images of me that have been seared into your mind's eye.
Your cock responds immediately and now you are as hard as a rock...you unbutton the front of boxershorts so you can pull the full length of your manhood through...then you lean forward on one arm in such a way, so that less than a minute later, you are erupting safely all over the floor while panting, "Joss...Joss...Joss."
Me? What am I doing right now? Well, I'm still working but you should know you are in my thoughts as well. I fantasize about what would've happened if you had just been brave enough to ask me when my next break was coming up. I would've confessed 'oh, I get a quickie in about 10 minutes.' You would've grinned at my choice of words because that's exactly what you were hinting at. That scene then fades to black...
My fantasy then flash-forwards: we're out back in the alley...between the shop's two dumpsters. Our eyes meet, I drop happily to my knees...even though it recently rained and there are puddles everywhere. As you unbuckle your belt, I excitedly unbutton and pull down your pants.
Flash-forward: I get to experience the full sensations of having your soft cock in my mouth and feeling it grow so that when it reaches full inflation, your bulbous head has already snaked down my throat. I don't panic initially...though I can't breathe. When necessary, I pull back to take in some air then push my face back into your stomach.
As much as you are enjoying this...you realize I don't actually know what I'm doing. (I really don't, this would have been my first blowjob ever) Anyway, you finally command me to put my hands behind my back...and then you take over and roughly fuck my mouth until I've pushed you over the edge. You cum down my throat then all inside my mouth before pulling back and shooting ropes of warm sticky goodness all over my face.
After you've finished, you try to catch your breath but I suck you back in my mouth because I'm not done worshipping. You marvel at my enthusiasm, realizing I crave every drop of your precious seed.
The next time we see each other...by some miracle...is when I'm just swinging in to pick up my paycheck. You've just collected your coffee -- no heart on the cup -- then we exchange "hey there's."
Outside, you track me down and ask if you could buy me breakfast. I tilt my head, smile, then ask if that's your best pick-up line. You blush...then rapidly explain that there's this really exceptional place just around the corner.
I already know that place...not because I've eaten there but because they have denied my applications several times. The bistro is posh and only those servers with years of experience and a fine pedigree have a shot.
I ask you if you are being serious right now? You say you've already reserved a table but your companion cancelled this morning because he wasn't feeling well. I point out that I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion--I'm not...these are practically pajamas. Okay, they are pajamas.
You pull out your mobile then place a call...I hear you asking an Andre if you can order takeout. Of course, nobody has ever done that...sure the food is exceptional but it's the ambiance that really delivers that fine dining experience. But you are you and Andre will be pleased to comply.
You hang up, smile at me...then we're in your limo and now Andre, himself, is rushing out our food curbside. Not in Styrofoam containers either. Actual plates...that we hold on our laps...with like large metal covers to keep everything at peak perfection.
There's also a French press...you tell me all about Paris while you work the plunger up and down. I am fascinated by the things you know. You then plunge all the way down...and pour us each a cup of the best France has to offer. You tell me to hold a sugar cube between my teeth as I drink. I obey and am rewarded.
Then you reach over and remove my topper... Eggs Benedict with fancy fondant potatoes, roasted vegetables, a small Friese salad.
I take a bite and gush about how delicious this is...then I keep gushing with every bite. No, I'm not pretending...you've just changed my life for the better, opened my eyes to a whole new world.
The next day: you tell your wife you've decided to go back to the gym, it's time to get in shape. You also buy a new cologne that younger women seem to swoon over.
She doesn't mind...her girlfriends have assured her this happens all the time. Yeah, some young woman somewhere did something and he's now been inspired to better himself. It'll all work out for her benefit in the long run.
Her Friend: "My husband actually went on Viagra...of course that young thing wasn't interested in him...but it was a marvelous couple of months."
I notice immediately, even squeeze your bicep right there at the counter...you are beyond fulfilled.
The following week, you mention there's an opera at the MET...do I have plans? I visibly blush. You explain that your wife is going out of town but she's cool if he attends with a friend--they've never missed an opening since becoming patrons of the arts. I excitedly accept...you'll pick me up at 5:00.
