I was on a mission, at the time. A mission to drown myself in feeling and meaning and maybe to wade into into my emptiness, to reclaim a quiet and a stillness that I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Half of my life had been lived in the arms of passion, and now it was gone.

And how I hated myself for thinking those words, for being engrossed in that feeling. Passion was not, could not be gone. After all, there had been passion before and during and there would be passion again.

But, I caught myself thinking often, would it ever measure up?

And so I sought to answer my own question, by finding those which I would measure, carefully and with precision.

It was on this mission that I encountered the Barista.

At the time, I was in a job that would not, could not ever be my career, but was, at the time, the most fulfilling thing I could do. I was pursuing Academia as well and found myself, nearly every morning, in the same drive-thru coffee line, commiserating with myself about the person that had the nerve to be in the line at 6 am without knowing what they wanted.

The Barista was a morning-shifter, a wake and move and grind type of man. He was up before the sun and always the first one at the place. He brewed the first cups and left just past lunch. He was homegrown and young, much younger than me, and much younger than I have ever preferred a man. He was tall and naturally athletic. Beneath his apron that he wore tight, I could see that his stomach was flat, and lean. Later, I would come to know it as chiseled and hard. He always rolled his sleeves up one time on each arm, revealing bulky biceps and rock hard triceps, threatening to tear the fabric which contained them.

He was young, and a specimen, but I hardly noticed him. He greeted me every morning, smiling through our entire transaction. His perfect pearly whites and tiny, sharp canines, might’ve blinded me if I took a second look. He flirted like he breathed; compulsively. But I was deep, deep in thought most mornings and his charm did not cut into me as it might have done to another woman.

Then things changed.

I was late for an important meeting. I didn’t have time to dally in the drive-thru line, and I parked my American Muscle, my stupid impulse buy to cure my stupid sadness, in the parking lot with a squeal. I dashed up the steps in heels and into a completely empty lobby. The line for the drive-thru wrapped around the building, and even in my haze and haste, I couldn’t help but shake my head at the stupidity that convenience breeds.

As I approached the counter, I heard him call out my regular order and watched as they began to prep it before I was able to speak. He grinned at me and I nodded curtly. I held up my smart phone to be scanned and heard the ding before moving down to the edge of the counter, fingers shooting off rapid fire texts to my boss and my suboordinates and my professor.

I felt body heat near me and frowned, frustrated and on edge with everyone, but especially a stranger who couldn’t respect my personal space in an empty room. My eyes flitted up and he stood before me, holding my drink, with a puppy-dog grin. I cocked my head, realizing for the first time just how much taller than me he was, as I stood before him in 5 inch heels, still having to knock my head back to take in his face.

“Late this morning?” he asked, pressing the drink into my hands.

Our fingers brushed against one another. There was no spark of electricity, no sudden driving need, but I felt something.

“Unbelievably… thanks for the top-notch service, as always.” I gestured with my cup and began to step around him, my phone dinging in my hand, telling me I was in deep shit.

“Don’t uh… throw the cup away without… looking at it… okay?”

I glanced back at him and he shrugged before anxiously moving back around the counter and putting his back to me.

I was in my car, feeling the rumble of the V8 beneath me before I took a real look at the paper cup. On the cardboard holder, meant to keep me from burning my hands, he had written his name, and a 10 digit number.


I was being bold, but I needed to know. I was only looking for something temporary, and maybe even just for one night. He was young, and now that I’d allowed myself to look at him, he was attractive too. And as much as I enjoyed giving up my control, I had an inkling that I would prefer to find myself as the Top in this situation.

Once he asked the right question, I knew the answer.


He texted me his address and I was amused to find that he lived less than 20 minutes from me. I did nothing to prepare my body for him. No extra ritual. No extra shower. No smoothing scented lotion or perfume over my body. I did not apply, with aching precision, his favorite shade of lipstick. I did not adorn his collar. I did not pick out his favorite lingerie.

It had been years since I had a one night stand with a complete stranger. With reckless abandon I climbed into the warm interior of my car and rode to his house in silence. My heart was thundering in my chest and I could taste my pulse on the back of my tongue.

He rented a house that he shared with two roommates on a side of town I was very familiar with.

“They’re both at work,” he said, as he backed up to let me walk into his home under the shadow of his arm. “Tour?”

“No,” I shook my head as he closed the door and looked me up and down. “No, there’s only one room I’m here to see.”

He led me to his room and I followed closely at his heels. I felt like I was floating somewhere above my own head. Was I going to do this?

I shut his bedroom door behind me and unhooked the back of my skirt while I faced him, using my thumbs to slide down the zipper and let the fabric slip from my hips to a pool at my feet. He stared at me and sat on the edge of his bed. I watched his hands fiddle at his clothed knees as I took a step closer to him, quick, shaking fingers unbuttoning my blouse and leaving it on the floor as well.

I breathed in a deep, shuddering sigh. The last person I had stood before in just my panties and bra was no longer in my life, and happier for it.

My hands kept moving, doing the complicated work, unhooking all the clasps on my bra, sliding arms from straps, until my heavy breasts hung free in front of him, nipples immediately pebbling in the cool room.

“You really are beautiful,” he murmured. I was close enough to feel his hot, wet breath against my skin.


I sucked in another breath and closed the gap between us. Pain edged around my vision. I did not want praises or sentiment. I dragged my fingers through the shaggy brown hair. It felt nothing like his.

“Take off your clothes. I don’t like being naked alone.”

He complied and I stepped back to give him room. He took his shirt off in one fluid motion and I was shocked to see the washboard abs, the deep V framing his hips, the strong swimmer’s build. There was nothing extra to him. My fingers slid up over my lips, covering my mouth. A wall between us, to hide my expression, to close myself off. He peeled his jeans down and kicked them off, leaving him nude except for a tight pair of boxer briefs that did nothing to hide his giant cock.

I gasped a little, eyes moving over the sizable erection beneath the fabric. My eyes met his and he was blushing.

Fuck, I thought. Fuck. What was I doing here with someone who would, undoubtedly, not be able to buy me a drink if he had to. I hadn’t even asked his age. I knew he was legal, but I didn’t know how legal.

“How old are you?” I blurted out.

He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

“A little late to be asking isn’t it?”

“No,” I said. “It isn’t too late for me to go home either.”

He laughed, a little harshly, and I felt good about his annoyance.

He reached down into the puddle of denim and pulled out a worn wallet and flipped his ID at me. I leaned down and in, very aware of my nudity.

“Twenty one?”

“For a whole two months,” he said stiffly, letting his wallet drop back to the floor.

I considered him. His furrowed brow, his brown eyes, his defensive stance, his still-hard dick. He was too young for me. We had nothing in common, probably.

In spite of this, I could feel my lizard brain clouding over my mind and drawing the dark shades over my eyes. My body was warming with anticipation. My skin was dewy. And my body betrayed me at the deepest level–I could feel my cunt slicking. I was suddenly hyper aware of the emptiness at the core of me.

“Let me see you,” I whispered. My throat was dry.

He stood up and pulled his briefs down awkwardly, letting the heft of his cock spill out. It was long and veiny and thick and proud. Standing at attention, as much as it could with its girth weighing it down. My cervix ached at the sight of it. The emptiness inside of me grew until it was a hot light at the corners of my eyes.

I crawled down to my knees and used my palms to press against his thighs until his ass hit the bed once more. I slid in between his legs and his hands immediately wove into my long hair.

“Don’t push my head,” I breathed against the skin of his dick, a jewel of pre-cum already beading at the tip. “I’m a size queen, but I’m out of practice and… fuck… you have a huge cock.”

He moaned softly at my words, or at my breath, I’m not sure, but loosened his grip at my scalp.

I came up high on my knees and took his dick in my mouth, tongue lapping up the pre-cum first, before my lips locked around him. His hands pulsed, but did not push and I took pleasure in trying to take him as deep as possible before sliding all the way back up his length, my lips pulsing and tongue vibrating against him.

I was surprised to find that I could not take the full length of him, as hard as I tried, as much as I relaxed my throat, and lost my self to the task, drool leaking from either side of my mouth, tears beginning to well in my eyes.

My fingers massaged the smooth skin of his groomed balls and I felt his cock began to twitch in my mouth when he gently pushed me back. I sat back on my calves and looked up at him.

His face was open, jaw slack, face flushed. I could see a darkness, a lust in his eyes. Desire.

His hands slid under my arms and he lifted me from the floor. I gasped and clung to him, his cock pressed against my cunt and belly as I wrapped my legs around his waist. I could feel him grind against the slick fabric of my panties and I answered the movement in kind. The veiny ridges of him pressed against my clit and I moaned aloud.

He threw me on the bed without a word, fingers sliding down to my hips at the same time mine did. We each wrestled with the silk until he yanked them from me and threw them to the ground. The cold air of the room was electric against the heat and wetness of my pussy.

I rolled onto my stomach and sat up, arching my back in a deep C. I felt him lean down, face near my thighs, breath beating against my skin.

“Don’t,” I panted.

I could feel him freeze with one knee on the bed. I inched backward and drew a hand between my legs, fingers spreading and splaying me so he could see the aching pink of my cunt.

“Not your mouth,” I muttered. “I need your cock.”

I felt the energy shift again; renewed heat.

He pressed up against me and pushed and rocked and fought his way inside of me. I gasped and buried my face against the bed. I felt a wave of emotions rock through me.

Different. So Different.

I willed the thought away and rocked my hips and breathed deep, ordering my body to relax, to open, to take him, to be spread and ruined and broken around him. I wished my thoughts, my brain away, wanting and yearning and needing to be a point of light on the end of his giant girth. A focused and fixated black hole of the pleasure that was building from his struggle.

I was keenly aware of his groaning echoing through out the room, of the quiet words of praise he was whispering for my pussy.

How tight. How wet. It felt so good.

My mouth stayed open in wordless cries, unwilling to open to him, to yield to him, to give him anything beyond my body.

“I want you to come on my cock,” he whimpered.

My body was flexing around him unwittingly. The sheer size of him making me ache and convulse. I was so close already.

I sucked on my fingers and slid them between my legs. I could feel my juices dripping down my thighs, onto his bedsheets. I slid my spit covered fingertips against my clit rhythmically, brushing them against the base of him with each stroke. He cried out as I focused on my orgasm, focused on squeezing around him, pulsing against him, fingers hitting just the right rhythm. My mouth opened in a sharp cry as I felt the wave crash into me, pulling me under, and I began to convulse under him, hips rocking back and forth frantically, searching for more, needing more, trying to take him deeper into me than he could possibly go. My free hand dug deep into his sheets, nails balling the fabric up against my palm as I screamed.

He pulled out just on the last edge and ebb of my climax, a roar of his own sounding from his lips as he came on the small of my back, coating the ink there; a great, thick puddle of cum leaking from his giant dick.

I collapsed beneath him, body covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

My blood was roiling beneath my skin, aching and itching as my heart beat through my chest. I was vaguely aware of the rough cat-tongue feel of a towel against me, soaking up the quickly cooling lake filling up the dip at the small of my back .

He sat down next to me, still naked, and I rolled my neck to peer up at him from beneath my hair. He offered a sweaty water bottle and I crawled up to my knees and downed half the bottle.

He was being kind and he was being considerate, but the buzzing feeling was fading fast and I knew I needed to go.

Soundlessly, I got to my feet and walked to the door to collect my strewn clothing; slipped the skirt back on, pulled on the shirt, fingers quickly redoing buttons, bra and panties in my hands.

“Where are you going?” he asked softly.

I spared him a glance but kept it moving.


I could feel him standing and moving in the room, vaguely aware of him moving into my space. I met his gaze. He looked smaller now, shoulders half slumped, raging erection stilled and soft between his legs.

“You don’t have to go you know, ” he shrugged, reaching back to run his fingers through his hair and my heart skipped a beat.

Familiar. How many times had I watched long, strong fingertips traverse that same path through Ochre locks, pushing tendrils away from deep blue eyes… eyes the color of the sky in winter.

“Yes, I do.”

I leaned up, wrapping a small hand around the nape of his neck, and pulled him down to me, so that I could plant my lips against the corner of his mouth. He tried to wrap me in his strong arms, but I twirled out of his grasp, and out of his door.

On the way home I cried. Not because the sex was bad. It wasn’t. Not because he texted me immediately telling me that I hurt him. I knew I had. Not because of the emptiness I still felt deep inside of me. I cried because sex with someone aside from him was all too new to me, once again. I cried because it wasn’t him. I cried because sex had always been the key to leveling myself once more. I cried because it felt good to empty myself once more and in this way.

I cried because I was going to do it again and again. As many times as I needed to regain my footing, and to be me again.



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