Coffee, with hot milk, please [M/F25/F37]

Coffee without milk, please.

It’s been three weeks since the restaurant where I usually go to eat closed. It’s been three days since the new owners reopened and today, for the first time in three years, I’ve been without a table. Surely all of you, like me, will wonder the reason for such success: the new cook, some of you will say. The raw material used. The new prices. The new colour of the walls… you’re all wrong, except for those of you who point out the new waitress: a 25-year-old hottie with long brown hair and the body of a nymph. And not because she’s good at serving, or fast, which she is. It’s all because of her firm and round breasts like a peach, a wasp waist, a perfect ass, a toasted skin, smooth and slender shoulders… Cristina, that’s her name.

I realized that she was the reason, the day I realized that I was the only woman in the restaurant, except for her, and that I was also the only one who didn’t look at her when she approached to serve me, or when she turned her back on me to go back to the bar. Or if she did look at her, I was the only one who looked at her over her chin.

I especially laughed my ass off one day when I was wearing white cotton pirates… and a thong. The buttocks and the slit that separated them were clearly marked on them… as if they were a second skin. All, and I’m not exaggerating, ALL the customers looked at her twice to check that first impression caught out of the corner of their eyes: some snorted and opened their eyes, others blinked or scrubbed their eyes. Others commented among themselves, amused.

And all this, which was what fucked me the most deep down, from an absolute naturalness. She didn’t do anything special to turn people on: she didn’t insinuate herself, she didn’t go along with those who did, and she didn’t dress in an exaggeratedly provocative way. She didn’t show her panties at the back of her trousers, not even her bra straps: she was irritatingly perfect. She used to wear tight clothes, but like me and any woman who could afford them.

It all started one day when I went downstairs in the middle of the afternoon to have a coffee after a hellish day at the office. There was no one in the bar. I stuck my head out to look inside the kitchen, behind the bar, but nothing. In the end I had no choice but to shout a questioning “hello?

I assumed she had gone to get something and would be back soon, so I sat down at a table to wait. My ass had barely touched a seat when the bathroom door opened and out came Cristina, smoothing her hair and putting on her shirt.

I smiled and asked for a coffee with milk. “Poor girl,” I wondered, “we don’t even let her pee.”

“Hot milk or plain milk?”

“Hot,” I replied as the door to the toilets opened again. A blond-haired boy appeared, a grin on his face from ear to ear.

I followed her gaze to the door. When he said goodbye with an aseptic “goodbye” my eyes were fixed on her. She didn’t even flinch. Nor did she look up. She was strangely cool as she poured my milk. As she approached me she didn’t look at me either. Clearly, she was uncomfortable. I picked it up instantly with my feminine sixth sense, but I didn’t give it any more wondered, drank my coffee and set about fulfilling the effects it usually has on the human body.

I went to the bathroom.

Cristina looked at me with a strange face. The squeeze didn’t leave me time to look too closely. I opened the door quickly, got into the women’s bathroom and… I walked out of the bar. No looks, no goodbyes: on the bathroom floor there was a cum the size of a pond.

As I ran up the stairs to the office, as my belly didn’t figure out stories with the bathroom floors, I wondered to myself: they had seen enough of me in that restaurant. At first I wondered: they had seen enough of me in that restaurant, but when I was sitting on the toilet bowl and a little calmer, my head started to work:

“Would that be her boyfriend?”

“I don’t think so, with such a farewell.”

“Maybe they’d had an argument?”

“The stain on the floor didn’t indicate that.”

“Sudden horniness?”

“It must be pretty intense to leave the bar alone and risk getting caught.”

But horniness is horniness.

What if they’ve known each other for a long time and met at the bar and did something crazy?

Naked from the waist down, my crotch begins to throb, oblivious to the unexciting task in which I discover myself immersed. My mind rules over my crotch, not my ass.

I still feel uneasy at my workplace. My belly has given me a break, but not my sex. I can not get the image of the waitress with her hands against the wall and, behind her, the blond stranger impaling her again and again without stopping. Their pants and underwear crumpled around their ankles. His tie going back and forth. The jacket covering her naked ass that opens and closes every time he shoves it all the way in….

I look around me and I can not stop seeing ties and blazers… Damn.

Then I try to reconstruct the story inside my mind: I see myself coming in and shouting “hello”, interrupting, at the right moment, the animal act.

I can almost see Cristina slapping the fucking male away and him cursing at me as his cock spits its thick contents on the floor while she struggles to pull up her panties and put her perfect good girl facade back on.

I’m sure that’s what happened.

I manage to forget about the bar, but when I get home, I find that my panties are soaking wet. They almost fall off by themselves.

Then, by chance, three days later I go downstairs at the same time, to discover the same thing: a lonely bar, a “hello” thrown into the void and the bathroom door opening to let Cristina in. The only differences are, the guy who comes out after the bathroom is not the one from the other day. It’s a thirty-something with more hair in his beard than on his head and Cristina goes to the bar, picks up a cup and goes into the kitchen, then comes out and asks me “what can I get you?” with a spectacular smile.

“Coffee with milk,” I answer him as I run to the bathroom, open the doors and inspect everything. Nothing in the women’s room. Nothing in the men’s either… Did I interrupt them…? Then they wouldn’t be smiling so much.


I’d managed to forget about it, but this smells like a scorcher to me. My feminine sense of gossip is sharpened until it hurts.

Not even a single condom in the personal hygiene bin in the ladies’ room. I’m sure that’s why she went to the kitchen to throw it away.

Puzzled, I go back outside. I don’t care if she fucks in the bathroom of her bar, she’ll know. But the “not knowing” eats me, the feeling of seeing all the pieces of the puzzle before my eyes and being unable to put them in order.

Cristina drinks from a cup. She puts it down and asks me, “plain or hot milk.”

“Hot,” I reply automatically. I watch her, her every move, but there’s no indication of what might have happened in the bathroom.

She just drinks and drinks from that cup. I check his crotch for signs of wetness, her walk, his hairstyle… Nothing again. Everything is perfect, as at all times.

I pay her and go back to work. I’m still restless but calmer than the other day. Today I can not even imagine anything. In fact I have no proof of anything. Maybe they were both peeing or having a bowel movement? But something inside me tells me that no, something is going on there….. And I must know what it is!!!!.

The next afternoon I went a little earlier. Without saying anything I sneaked into the toilets. Both had closed doors and I didn’t do anything to open them, I just listened. Nothing. It couldn’t be. Nobody fucks that quietly. Even if it’s just the sound of flesh bumping against flesh, or a belt buckle scraping against the floor, or a moan, nothing. Nothing. And then I heard it. A man’s grunt. A “God” shouted with orgasmic eagerness. But not a trace of a female moan…. I left with the same silence with which I had entered and took my usual table.

Cristina didn’t take long to come out. She saw me and, again without opening her mouth, she went to the bar, grabbed a cup and went into the kitchen.

The man who came out that day was about 40, gray-haired and, like everyone else, he left without asking or paying for anything, but I noticed something… he came out with a little red cup in his hand. Cristina came back with her own cup in her hand and we repeated what we did every day: – “what can I get you?”-

“A coffee with milk”-

“Plain or hot milk?”


She poured it for me and sipped again from his inseparable cup.

I went back to the bathroom again and came out with the same result as the day before: nothing.

That night I couldn’t take it anymore. My mind needed to think about what was going on in those bathrooms and I imagined again Cristina sitting on the stranger’s lap, riding him, moving her hips back and forth…. And him covering her mouth to muffle her screams and her sucking on those fingers desperately as his cock plunged into her pussy again and again until he cummed inside.

Again I come home with some panties that go straight to the washing machine. That night I can not help touching myself, fingering myself desperately until I cum, thinking about Cristina and her clients. And I’m surprised imagining that I’m the one who rides that morbid forty-year-old, the one who pulls down her panties to allow him to slip between my legs with his massive cock… God how I cum just thinking about that!!!!.

Two days later I can not take it anymore and I wait in the street, watching what’s going on in the bar. Cristina is cleaning and tidying up without a break. Behind me passes a man with a red cup in his hand. I don’t notice him or the cup until he enters the bar.

I watch as she leaves the cup on the bar. Cristina smiles and looks outside as she dries a glass with a rag. Her eyes dart to the back of the bar and her smile widens. He follows her directions and goes into the restrooms. Without wasting a second I duck into the bar.

“Coffee with milk,” I say.

She tries to say something but I don’t even look at her and, without giving her time to say more, I go into the bathroom.

The men’s room is taken, so I take the one I’m naturally assigned to.

The first thing I see is the toilet paper machine on the floor, and the second thing…. Oh, the second thing.

There it is, perpendicular to the wall and full of veins, a 15cm piece, hard, shiny… In my mind the puzzle is instantly drawn… The sign is the cup. The exam is oral. Every day a different one, the one who receives the cup from the guy from the day before…

I sit down on the cup. The “puzzle piece” is just inches from my face. I can almost smell it.

I smile, what a perfect plan!!! Every day a different one. It’s like a virus that spreads and at all times comes back.

And, today, the virus has touched me …. and the virus doesn’t know who I am… what an anonymous opportunity is presented to me…

I pull down my pants and panties. My right hand falls between my legs. My face tilts to the wall and my mouth opens…

Ten minutes later I sit down on a bar stool.

“Plain or hot milk?”

I shush him with a wave of my hand as an unfamiliar male voice says goodbye.

Our eyes meet.

She smiles.

I can not. Not yet.

I take the cup of coffee and empty the contents of my mouth into it. The thick fluid falls along with my saliva.

When I can, I answer her: “hot, always hot.”

By u/BellaPerrix

NSFW: yes

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