Mark was addicted. It was something he needed to admit to himself. It was something he needed help with. It was something that was part of him.
“Can I get a quad shot cappuccino, very dry, non-fat milk?” He stood at the counter digging deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to get another fifty cents. It was a costly habit. Four shots of espresso with a little steamed milk and foam was six and a half bucks.
Behind him, a line of well-dressed people tried to summon the psychic power needed to destroy him. He was holding up the line, therefore holding up their caffeine intake. This was a dangerous thing.
“Don’t worry, you come in every day like three times. I think I can overlook fifty cents.” the girl with the thick glasses and the tight shirt behind the counter said with a smile. She was blonde, with bright green eyes, and a nose ring. She was very cute but a little too skinny and bubbly for Mark’s taste. He smiled and handed her his insufficient funds.
“Quad non-fat cap, dry!” she barked over to the barista.
There were many coffee houses in Mark’s neighborhood. Among them, roughly half were of the corporate chain variety, whose coffee and politics left bad tastes in his mouth. A few of the privately owned ones were run by hippy types and tended to be heavy on ambiance and light on coffee brewing know-how. Then there was The Coffee House. It was a little out of the way, but it was hardcore. There were only a few tables, and there was no internet access or jazz music. They served coffee there, hot and strong and good. It wasn’t some diner brew. It was deep rich earthy Columbians and Sumatras and powerful orgasmic Ethiopians, along with their very own extremely potent espresso blend, which Mark had been slowly replacing his body’s water with. Though, there was another reason he came to that particular place.
As he walked away from the cashier and passed the small stack of burlap bags that held rich smelling, beautifully oily beans, he saw the two towers of silvery chrome power that made the brew. Behind one of these steaming whistling machines was a woman.
Her hair was a short jet black bob, pulled back severely into a ponytail. She wore dark-rimmed glasses and dark matte red lipstick. Her lips were huge, so big and pouting that they almost made the scowl she gave everyone sexual just because of their lusciousness. Her hands were large and strong. She worked those machines. She owned them.
As Mark watched, she wiped one metal nozzle with a damp cloth while pounding a large metal-handled portafilter against the counter. She moved fast, her fingers adept and economic in their movements. She tapped out the used grounds, wiped the filter, and then brought it up to a huge grinder which whirled and roared and then filled her filter with exactly enough coffee. She pressed the fine powder grounds into the metal filter with the bumper and then twisted the filter into the giant espresso machine.
She wore an argyle sweater of dark green and burgundy. It was a low v cut that showed her whole-milk-colored cleavage, which was sprinkled with freckles like a dusting of cinnamon on a foamy drink.
She sloshed some milk into a large metal cup and then slipped the steam nozzle into the cold milk. The steam screamed as it hit the cold milk. Beads of moisture condensed on her cleavage. Mark was erect as he watched it.
The espresso came in spurts, thick rich crema dark against the white porcelain shot glass. She worked both machines. Two shots from one, two shots from the other, then all of them into a huge bowl-like latte mug. She followed it with the steamed milk and topped it off with a large helping of foam.
“Skin quad cap,” she shouted, thinking the owner of said drink was waiting at a table. She was shouting the drink order right into Mark’s face.
“That’s me,” he said, trying desperately not to look at her cleavage and succeeding only because he was hypnotized by her eyes which were chocolate and honey brown, deep and rich like a dark roast.
She scowled at him as he took the drink. Mark knew she had contempt for most patrons and squirmed a little under her powerful gaze. He picked up his coffee and sat in a chair by the window. It was the same thing every day.
He sipped his drink and furiously typed out a paper on post-colonialism, all the time trying hard not to look back at the barista with the name tag that read “Jane.” He only failed a few times in three hours.
That evening, still buzzing a bit from the caffeine, he joined some friends at a gallery opening. An art show was not something Mark particularly wanted to go to, but friends being friends, they pushed, and since somehow dense socio-political research alone on a Saturday night seemed a little too depressing even for him, Mark went. It was in a somewhat rough part of town in a brownstone in the middle of a long block.
Like most fairly amateur recent art school graduate showings, it was trying to do a lot of things at the same time and failing at almost all of them. Besides the paintings, there was some bizarre ambient music playing that the artist recorded to go along with the painting giving the room the vibe of a surreal elevator.
People milled about, looking at strange crooked postmodern painting like things, drinking free wine. Mark saw his friends, and they had the hushed conversation people have.
Eying the crowd, Mark suddenly saw something he didn’t expect. The barista. Jane. She was dressed in a dark red button-up blouse and a black skirt, looking far more sophisticated than her coffee serving alter ego, but still wearing the same scowl. Mark finished his glass of wine and decided it was far too good of a coincidence.
He walked up to her in the crowd and stood next to her, looking at the same painting she was gazing at. It was an abstract maze of words and cartoon faces. Her large dark red lips were pouting, though Mark wasn’t sure if it was with scorn or thought.
“Hey, you work in The Coffee House, right?” he said, maintaining his concentration on her.
She looked at him in a way that made him feel small and disgusting. “Oh. You’re that guy,” she said, half to herself, looking back at the painting. “That guy?”
“That guy who comes in every day and orders the same thing and stairs at my tits.” There are a variety of reactions one could have to this. Mark wasn’t sure what most of them were, but his was to basically stand there with his mouth open.
“So, what are you doing here?” she said just as casually.
“I- my friends said it would be interesting,” he mumbled. “And I don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asked with a smirk. “Look at your tits.”
“You’ve never looked at my tits when you got coffee at my shop?” she asked, sort of leaning into the painting and causing him to get drawn into the two open buttons of her shirt.
“I-” he coughed. “I mean, people look at things. It’s not like I was staring, but you are tall, and I may have-”
“Shh,” said a bald guy with a beard. Mark felt very out of his element.
“Why do you come in every day? Are you stalking me?” she asked in a quiet voice, which forced him to walk a little closer.
“No, I live a couple of blocks away, and it’s a good place to study,” Mark said, trying to get some control of the conversation. She was snide and sarcastic and basically everything he usually was in a conversation. This left him weaponless.
“You have quite the ego, don’t you. Thinking I was there looking at you and stalking you. People drink coffee. Your tits aren’t that nice-” his voice went a little louder, and he was again chided.
“Hey, sorry,” said a woman holding a tray of glasses. “The music is an important element of the work. Do you mind keeping it down in the gallery area?” pretension and self-importance dripping from her thin lips.
Jane rolled her eyes. Her contempt for the gallery girl was even greater than her contempt for Mark, it seemed. She walked back to where the wine was, and she briefly eyed Mark in a way that gave him the impression he should follow.
They were standing in front of a coat rack covered in Christmas lights. She took a red wine off a tray and sipped it, then, making a face of disgust, put it back down.
“Do you like art?” he asked half-heartedly. “Not particularly.”
“Are you a student?” She rolled her eyes. “Perpetually.”
“What do you study?” He asked, and she contemplated the question with a long sigh. “Art History,” her voice was flat.
She turned on him. “Are you trying to pick me up?” she said as if she suddenly realized it and was incensed. “I- know- I mean,” Mark was usually a lot better at this, but this girl seemed randomly aggressive.
She scoffed. A smile flickered, a challenging smile. “Let me guess, you’re a graduate student,” Her tone was flat again and mocking.
“What’s your name?” he tried to turn the conversation.
“Jane, but you know that. You were looking at my nametag. Not my tits, right?” He tried to come up with a reply, but just said, “I’m Mark.”
“Shh,” said someone in the distance. Jane casually walked out of the galley completely and into the parking lot behind the building. Mark followed.
“Did I piss you off or something? Do you not like how I order my drink or something?” She eyed him. The parking lot was empty, and the black asphalt was dark and wet from the rain earlier in the day.
“Well, it is a stupid order, but you’re just that guy I see every day who looks at me but never has the balls to say hello. Another lame graduate student. What is it? Let me guess, philosophy?”
“No,” he said with disdain. “Literature? Literary Theory?” Mark didn’t say anything. “Oh god, you’re one of those assholes who sits around mentally masturbating and deconstructing Joyce.”
“Well, we can’t all go for hands-on applied science of art history,” he retorted. She was stewing, she looked like she might hit him. She walked up to him and he backed up until he was against a wall covered in graffiti. She stopped in front of him, her eyes full of fire, but she didn’t say anything, she only waited.
After a moment she sighed and shook her head, disappointedly. “This show is stupid, I shouldn’t have come out tonight,” She turned, but Mark took her hand and pulled her to him. He didn’t know why or how but suddenly he was kissing her. They were arguing, and then the next thing he knew, his lips were on those big soft red lips. And it surprisingly shut her up.
When he pulled away he waited for something to happen. For her to yell at him or kiss him some more or punch him, but she just studied him. “I’m going home, do you want some whiskey?” He nodded and followed her.
It was a bit of a walk. She lived in a rougher part of town. He followed and they didn’t speak. When they got to her building, he followed her up two flights of stairs looking at her ass the whole time. She caught him and let out one smirking little laugh.
Inside the door, he pushed her against a wall and kissed her again. She bit his bottom lip as he pulled away and cut her eyes at him. She looked different, sort of drugged. He moved in and kissed her neck. It made her moan and her eyes roll back. When he stopped she pushed him away.
“I don’t like you,” she said as she found a bottle of bourbon and poured it for them neat. Mark smiled, licking his lips. “I don’t mind.” They sat on a battered old brown couch. A ginger cat appeared briefly but then left.
He moved in again, his hand on her knee slipping up her skirt as he kissed her neck. She gasped and put her hands on his collar, pushing him away, but holding on to the fabric of his shirt.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said a little breathlessly again to his ear, her warm, soft lips brushing against it as she spoke.
“I’m trying to fuck you,” he growled, as she clamped her legs shut on his hand.
It was hot there, between her thick thighs. It felt unusual with the softness of her skin and the roughness of the fishnets she was wearing. Mark felt with the tips of his fingers where the stockings ended in lace and were clipped to garters. Fuck, he liked her style.
Mark kissed her neck and dragged his bottom lip across her skin, then he sucked on her earlobe and bit at the flesh.
“I told you, I don’t like you,” she whispered, but she pulled him by his collar, tilting her head and giving him access to her neck again. His hand moved further up her leg. He felt heat radiating from between her thighs.
His fingers touched the edge of her panty leg. He traced that elastic edge and traced his bite marks on her neck with his tongue. As the very tip of his finger slipped under the fabric, her breath caught, and her grip on his shirt loosened.
“You feel awfully wet for someone who doesn’t like me.” She was past listening. His words were just little thorns that made the itch his fingers were so close to scratching more deliciously unbearable.
He brushed his lips across her cheek, edging near her full lips. The vivid dark red of her lipstick matte, slightly smudged, perfect. He nearly caught her with a kiss, but she turned her head. His finger moved in, feeling smoothness where there should be coarse hair. He rubbed there, never quiet in the right place, cupping her sex and petting her but not quite slipping his finger in. It was almost too much and yet just enough to keep her on the edge.
He moved in again, his bottom lip almost catching hers. She moaned into his cheek, and the sound made his cock throb painfully.
“Take your panties off for me,” he whispered in her ear.
One finger slid between her wet lips. She was one of those girls who got soaking wet. He watched the pleasure take over. He edged around her clit, tracing around it, feeling its firmness under the soft folds of her hood.
“Fuck you.” she spat. The dark laugh came from the very bottom of his stomach and spilled out. He laughed right against her neck as his finger slipped into unbearably tight wetness.
Mark knew that sigh, that moan. Some girls like to have their clit played with for hours, and some girls like to have a tongue torturing them for days, but Jane wanted cock. She wanted a big thick cock to fuck her. That was the only thing that would get her off.
Mark pushed her away from him roughly. He flipped her over on the couch and pushed her head down, so she was on her hand and knees with her ass in front of him. He pushed up her skirt and then pulled his zipper down and pulled out his cock.
She was groaning and hissing about it, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Mark rubbed his cock against her panty-covered sex. He could feel the split of her lips through the soaking wet satin. She pushed her ass back at him.
“Take your panties off for me.”
She scoffed first, but then pushed back against him and made a desperate little squeal of frustration. Her hands came up and back. Her thumbs hooked the sides of her panties. There was a beat, a pause, and she pulled them down. Not all the way down but just to her knees. Then she pushed back, trying to impale herself on his hard cock.
He chuckled and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He got out a condom. She eyed him and for the first time smiled, wickedly, as she watched him put it on. He pushed forward, rubbing the head of his cock on the same spot now that it was naked. He looked down at obesely pink lips against his hard reddening cock.
“Ask me to fuck you,” he whispered. She turned her head, the smile replaced with eyes full of hate and want and fire. Her hands flew back, and she tried to pull her panties back up, but he grabbed her hands and held them behind her back.
“Fuck you. You’re the one who started this. I’m not asking you for shit.” she hissed, her cheek pressed against the couch. He smacked her ass once and she let out a yelp, but went still.
Mark rocked against her, the head of his cock just barely pushing into her wetness. She let out gasps with each little push.
“Please- you fucking asshole. Just-” another whine, another gasp, another curse.
“Please what?” his voice was more and more gravelly. His little chuckles darker and darker.
“Just- please-” her voice was quieter, almost inaudible. Then a long sigh. “Just fuck me.”
It wasn’t really what he wanted. He wanted her to beg, but he knew it was enough, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.
He spit on his hand and worked his cock up and down, then rubbed it between the wetness of her lips. When he pushed his cock in, finally, it was almost painfully pleasurable. He let out a loud groan.
“Spank me again. Grab my ass hard,” she said, not even looking back at him. Pleasure shot through him, almost as lovely as the feeling of her hot wet cunt. He smacked her ass twice, hard, and then squeezed both cheeks as he started to fuck her for real.
Sometimes it took time to work up a real rhythm. Sometimes you had to figure the other person out, and get the angle right. Jane was wet and just right, and Mark sank his fingers into the softness of her big ass and pounded into her. It was hard and fast from the start and the couch squeaked and moved as he pounded into her.
“Holy fucking shit,” she said, letting out a string of curses mixed with moans. Her hands were on the arm of the couch, pushing herself back at him as he went harder.
Mark reached up and put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back into each thrust. His other hand snaked up into her hair.
“Fuck me harder,” she said, looking back with the same fire. “Come on. Is that all you got? Really fuck me.”
He grabbed her hips hard and pounded into her. Hard fast slapping over and over. She let go of the arm of the chair and let out a little howl. He felt her legs tighten, her cunt clenching on him as a moan built into a wail. “Fuck!” The word burst from her lips as she came.
A moment later, she pulled away suddenly and stood, her legs shaking. Her face bright red. She leaned over and pulled off her panties. Mark grabbed all the pillows on the couch and threw them across the room. They pulled at their shirts, needing more contact. She half ripped off her bra, and he was on her, sucking her nipples, biting her neck, and kissing her plump lips. Their faces were covered in lipstick.
Suddenly the world was spinning. Mark didn’t know how but he was on the floor, and she was on top of him, her neat black bob now half sticking to her face an
Her hands were on his wrists, holding his arms down as she rose up and pushed down on his cock. He groaned and moaned and looked up at her perfect bouncing tits. The image made him shudder
“Want to come bad, hm?” She asked. Mark bucked his hips, but she was not a tiny girl.
“It’s only fair,” he said low and gravelly. She moved her hips up and then down a little, sort of bouncing up and down on him. The pleasure was like a punch, it was so potent. Mark tried to maintain control at least enough to watch her bit her own lip and moan.
She continued to flex her legs, causing her to go up and down on him with a slow, steady rhythm. She cupped her breasts and let her fingers pull at her own nipples, which were surprisingly dark for her pale skin and large with fat nipples that were hardpoints. She watched him as he was hypnotized by her.
Mark put his hands on her hips and bucked his hips again. She wasn’t stopping him now. Her eyes closed, and she moved up and down a little faster, with Mark pushing up to meet her. She pulled roughly on one nipple, and her other hand went down to her wet pussy. Mark could dully feel her rubbing herself as he slipped again and again into her. Suddenly she was gasping, and her fucking lost its momentum. Mark took hold of her hips and kept fucking her front underneath her. She was lost as her fingers moved on her clit and nipple. Mark watched, feeling his orgasm building faster and faster.
She was going crazy on top of him, whimpering and rolling her hips. He tried desperately to keep fucking, keep the rhythm. “Come. Come on. Fucking come inside of me.” she was practically yelling.
And then what had been building for so long finally hit its end, and Mark exploded. He wasn’t sure what he said, but it was loud. She rode him through it and kept on riding him until he was limp and weak, and then she fell on top of him, her hair clinging to his face and her lips on his as they panted.
After that, there was whiskey and water and more fucking and more whiskey. In the morning, she awoke to the smell of coffee. She saw him fiddling with her Chemex and she smiled.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she said, standing and stretching, naked and covered in little red marks, bites, and bruises. His eyes went wide at the sight of her.
“I usually go out for coffee,” he said, sheepishly.
She sat on her couch, legs spread wide. “Come over here and be a good boy for me and maybe I’ll get you a cappuccino for free,” she said, her fingers slipping between her legs as he crawled over to her.
They both groaned as he buried his head between her legs. Her eyes fluttered and her fingers were in his dark hair.
“Very good boy. Now, you can learn that a dry cappuccino is a stupid order and what you should order is a cortado. And you should swirl your tongue in little circles, little-oh, fuck, you are a quick learner. I’ll have you making my coffee in no time.”