Lets Grab Coffee: Part 2

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and we are in no way advocates of any kind of abuse, non-consensual behavior, crossing any hard limits, putting any one in harm’s way (physically/mentally/emotionally/spiritually), or violating one’s boundaries/what was pre-negotiated.

With this being said, enjoy the story!

For Part 1 Click Here

Stomping my feet through the coffee shop like an angry child, I move through the crowd with my head down, hauling soaked ass to the exit. I don’t even want to know how many eyes are on me as I leave. I don’t want to know who saw it- I don’t want to know anything. I can never come back here as long as I live. Ever again.

You’re still holding onto my hand as I’m pulling you behind me. The same hand that just made me cum in a corner. While I want to be angry and throw a tantrum, I can’t stop thinking about the way your calluses felt when they rubbed me from the inside. God, that was incredible.

I finally break through the clunky door, leaving my humiliation in that stuffy room behind me. The fresh air is everything I hoped it to be. The light breeze cools my skin when it hits my sweat. I let go of your hand, turn away from you, close my eyes, and take in the biggest breath I can fit inside of my lungs.

What can I even say right now? I’ll never be able to order an iced drink EVER again without thinking about my under the table orgasm.

My entire body is tingling with the afterglow of your indecent touch.

Embarrassed as I am, I have to admit- it was pretty fucking hot. The way that you maintained eye contact with me the entire time. How you slipped your fingers inside of me when I least expected it. How you commanded me to hush, when all I wanted to do was scream profanities.

“Fuck yes! Don’t stop! Oh shit! I’m cumming!”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more sexually exhilarated. This is definitely not something I do every day. I mean, it’s something that I’ve dreamed of doing. Not even that- I didn’t even know it was a thing that could happen until it happened. And now that it happened, how will a plain ol’ finger fuck on the couch while watching a movie EVER live up to this?

It won’t.

This was priceless.

So why am I acting like such a brat? Pulling you through the store and turning away from you? Letting my embarrassment overcome me? Oh shit-

I am being very, very bad right now.

You are going to punish me for storming out of the coffee shop like a little girl mad at Daddy for not buying her an ice cream cone.

I’ve never been in trouble with you before.

The thought chills me. My nipples stiffen.

I stand for a few moments more, grounding myself, building the courage to look you in the eyes again.

I command myself to turn back around to face you. I’m wearing a look of shame. I’m so sorry, Sir.

You make me feel things I’ve never felt before.

You look unphased by everything that’s just happened- my obnoxious, obvious orgasm, my less than smooth exit from the store, the fact that I nearly ripped your arm out of its socket when I made my escape.

You’re standing there with your arms crossed, drinking the last few sips of your americano. You’re a beautiful looking man. You’re completely unreadable when you want to be.

“I’m sorry I’m behaving so poorly, Sir,” I mumble while staring down at my feet.

“Ah ah ah,” you say with a wag of your sticky cum covered finger. “Be a good girl and look up at me”.  

Shit. You ARE mad. I AM in trouble.

I take in another deep breath as I lock eyes with you. “I’m sorry, Sir”.

I brush a few droplets of sweat away from my temple, feeling insecure and not knowing how to hold myself.

You drop your arms and take a slow step towards me. Another, and now another. I can feel the heat of your breath and smell your musk. When you’re right in front of me, you cup my chin in your hand, keeping stern eye contact, and quietly ask “Did you not like it? Did it not feel good? Did you not shake with complete satisfaction? Because from where I was just sitting, in that room full of bankers and soccer moms, with my fingers deep up inside of you, you seemed to have enjoyed it very, very, much”.

I let out a small moan. Even your words fuck me the right way.

With my face still balancing in the palm of your hand, you lean forward, give me a gentle kiss on the forehead, and then step back, beginning to walk away. You toss your empty cup in the trash as you go.

No! Wait! Where are you going? Don’t go! Please don’t go!

“I’m sorry, Sir! Please! Let me thank you properly,” I shout after you.

You’re just stepping off of the curb, heading towards where I assume your car is parked, when you hear my plea, and stop dead in your tracks. You pause for a moment, and without turning to face me, you ask, “How will my naughty girl repay me?”

My eyes widen. You’ve never called me your naughty girl. I’m your GOOD girl. I do as I’m told.

I stare at the back of your messy head of hair and the plain black T-shirt covering your broad shoulders that I so terribly want to claw up, before I shout “Let me please you! Right now. Wherever- however you want!” I glance nervously around, hoping nobody else hears me.

You slowly pivot on your feet. There’s a hard edge to your eyes. You begin walking my way. “Wherever I want?” you ask.

The familiar rush of heat that you often project upon me tickles my cheeks and snaps at my clit. My lips part and I gasp, “Yes. Anywhere”.

I reach forward and rest my hand on your chest. “Let me thank you,” I add, following with a daring, light kiss directly to your mouth.

Your smirk returns as you release the kiss that I’d rather keep holding. Your hand reaches up and now rests on top of mine on your chest. Your eyes are filled with an emotion that I can’t quite pinpoint.

Fuck. You are such a dangerous man.

Holding my hand still, you smoothly begin to ease my palm down the front of your body. Inch by inch you let me feel you, until- I’m there.

You let out a deep breath that sounds more like an “mmm” than an exhale, as I make contact with what I’ve been craving for weeks. Maybe you’ve been craving this too.

See, naughty girls can be good.

You bring up your free hand, and carefully move my hair behind my shoulder. You lean your impeccable mouth down to my ear, graze my skin with your moistened lips, and whisper, “Take me around to the back of the store. Find the filthiest place you can- and kneel”.

My legs threaten to give out, and I feel a gush of pleasure start slipping from between my thighs. You are going to be the death of me. The hottest, fucking, death of me.  

“Yes, Sir.” I obey, entranced by the lingering feel of your lips on me.

“Good girl,” you reassure me, with a nudge to let me know that you mean now.

Another gush of pleasure.

I’m not sure who is going to enjoy this more-you or me.

I lead the way around to the back of the brick building. Your hand is resting on my ass again. It feels so good when you touch me. It feels good when you even LOOK at me.

There isn’t much privacy here, but I don’t think that you’re particularly concerned with being caught, seeing as how you just intentionally had your way with me in the middle of a latte convention.

The filthiest place, you say? Well- I guess I’m going to have you behind the dumpsters then, Sir.

I give you a glance over my shoulder, and lick my lips. The look on your face is reminding me that this is still a punishment. So, I drop the smile and continue my march of shame to the trash.

The moment we’re behind the dumpsters, you hold up your hand, signaling for me to stop. “On your knees,” you command.

I look around at our surroundings, then glance to to the ground. Gravel, and garbage, and what might even be shards of broken glass. You can’t mean right here, in this spot.

“But, it’s-“

“On your knees, NOW,” you repeat.

Fuck.

This is going to hurt.

The tone in your voice and the look in your eyes tell me that this is not optional. If I’m going to continue to be your good girl, this is necessary.

I take in a nervous breath. “Yes, Sir,” I whisper, looking you in the eyes as I lower one bare knee to the ground, and then the other.

I flinch as my skin collides with the sharpness beneath me. I can feel every single speck of dust between me and the hot concrete. I remind myself that I deserve this. I want this.

You take a step closer to me. I raise my head to look up at your face, and without a word,  you begin undoing your belt.

The pain in my knees is increasing by the second. I’m severely exposed. Anyone could see us. But somehow, this form of torture makes me feel alive. When this is all over, I’m going to have the taste of you in my mouth for days, and the scars on my knees for a lifetime.

I waste no time gawking at what I find inside of your pants. I’m being denied that luxury as a consequence of my actions. I take you into my mouth, and simultaneously dig my fingernails into the skin of your exposed hips.

I hear you gasp, and feel your body jerk as you experience both relief and discomfort at the same time. I stare up and bat my eyelashes, as if to say “Oh, I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to”.

Your smile widens.

I obviously meant to. But I know you’ll play this game with me.

Your smile soon fades, and you let your head fall back. You’ve been waiting to feel my mouth on your cock. You’ve been needing it for months.

Your breathing is picking up, and you’re beginning to thrust in response to my anxious sucking.

Knowing that I’m the good girl pleasing you, here in this moment, excites me on a whole new level. I rapidly work my mouth up and down your shaft. There’s no time for teasing your tip with my tongue. This is a matter of urgency. I’m down here on my knees bleeding because I so desperately want to hear you groan as you fill up my throat with forgiveness.

Little groans start slipping out between your breaths as you get closer to accepting my apology. I glance up again, and the eye contact gives you a swift push. You release a grunt.

I begin moaning, vibrating your cock with my vocal chords, which gives you an extra slap of stimulation. I bring you in and spit you out, over and over again, sucking until my cheeks are sore and my throat is raw.

Forgive me. Forgive me. You have to.

You grab a fistful of my hair, steadying yourself as your groans turn to gasps. You’re so close I can literally taste it.

Forgive me! I’m a good girl! I’m YOUR good girl!

I’m choking on the intensity of your demands, tears pour down my cheeks. My mascara must be a mess and my lip tint long gone. I’m not sure I can take anymore.

I look up a final time- “Cum for me, Sir. Cum for me. Forgive me. Cum for me”.

This time, behind a dirty dumpster around back of the coffee shop that you finger fucked me in, it is you, Sir, who is obedient to me.

It is you now, who can’t hold in your profanities. It is you, who can’t hold your hips still. It is you, who cums for me.

Your hands grip onto the back of my head, and with a guttural growl, you give me everything you have.

My mouth fills, and as I choke down every last drop of you, you give me a nod that nearly makes me cum alongside you.

I am forgiven.

I take my time sliding off of you, savoring every lick. I’ve never tasted such salty sweetness. I don’t want it to end.

You stand above me observing my makeup-streaked face and red, swollen lips. I must look like I’ve been through hell. And in a way I have. However, this hell I would gladly choose over heaven.

When you’ve finished fastening your belt, you extend both hands down to me. You touch me with such gentleness now.

I accept your reach, and let you lift me off the ground, grimacing as I bend and straighten my battered knees.

You wrap your strong arms around me, bring my head to rest on your chest, and hold me. We stand for a few moments in silence as we settle.

A gust of wind picks up and brings with it the acrid scent of spoiled food and waste. Ah yes, reality- We are standing behind a dumpster.

“Come, good girl. Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say with a chuckle and a playful kiss to the cheek.

I take your hand in mine as our much anticipated rendezvous finds its demise. “Yes please, Sir,” I answer, unable to break my smile.

Oh, Sir, I don’t think either of us will ever drink our coffee quite the same again.

About the Author:

Paige is a 34 year old dreadlock mama, currently living in Virginia, exploring her deepest desires to be primally dominated. She has spent the last 12 years as a housewife, but has quietly fantasized long enough, and is now beginning her kinky journey to self realization and true pleasure. Paige writes erotica based off of a combination of personal fantasy and experience.

Fetlife: TangerineSpeedo