I like to work in coffee shops. I like the atmosphere, the hum of conversation and background music, the aroma of the coffee and the whoosh of the machines. I discover it a good environment to write in, inspiration coming easily and the words flowing.

About a year ago, I was working a couple of days each week in the Costa in the town centre when Eden started behind the bar there. I noticed her immediately – I have at all times been delighted by petite young women. I can not now remember, though, whether it was her long, blonde hair that first caught my eye, or her slender, toned legs. Or perhaps it was that smile, or those deep brown eyes.

I do remember thinking how striking her eyes were against her hair and how unusual the combination was. And then feeling guilty when that triggered a train of wondered on whether or not she was a natural blonde, in which my mind swept down, pausing briefly at her lips, again at her small, firm, perfect breasts, wondering whether or not she was wearing a bra, and then at her perfectly flat stomach, imagining how her abs might look, to arrive at the warm, soft, oh so inviting mound between her legs, its contours clear behind the tight material of her leggings.

My mind then pretended to have an intellectual discussion as to whether any hair there would be blonde or dark. Meanwhile I shifted in my seat for reasons of comfort and modesty – I generally go commando, a habit which at this point I regretted.

Over the months I got to know Eden better, and we formed an easy-going friendship. We only ran into each other at Costa, but she’d often stay on at the end of her shift, chatting with me at my table and on occasions we’d walk part way home together – her flat was on the way to mine. I discovered she was a tattoo artist, and was working part time at Costa to save money to begin her own studio while also working a few hours a week in a local parlour.

It also quickly became apparent that she had a will of iron. I had the distinct feeling, that, come what may, she would bring her plans to reality, that whatever she decided, in any field, she would make happen. I’ve at all times found strong women highly attractive, and this merely added to my arousal every time I saw her.

Things shifted up a gear one evening in the summer, maybe three months ago. She came over to my table at the end of her shift, about 6pm. She’d taken her Costa top off, leaving her wearing a pair of hippie sandals, leggings and tiny spaghetti strap top that hung off her boobs, coming down to about three inches below them, and a scarf in her hair.

I noticed three things in quick succession. Firstly, she did indeed have beautifully defined abs. Secondly she was very clearly not wearing either a bra, or anything but the very smallest of thongs. And thirdly, I was suddenly and acutely aware of my cock expanding, sliding up against the inside of my jeans crotch, pulling the foreskin back as it swiftly became hugely, pulsatingly hard. I was left with my exposed head pressed hard up against the inside of my jeans, just below the belt. No amount of shifting in my seat would do.

Eden smiled, extra sweetly. “Hi James. How are you doing?” I’m sure she shifted deliberately – her top jiggled slightly, drawing my attention to her nipples, evidently stiff behind it. I dragged my eyes off it to meet her gaze. After what seemed a period of several weeks I managed to get, “I’m fine, how are you?” out, at which her eyes flicked down to my lap, lingered there for a fraction of a second and then swept back up to meet mine.

“Can you walk?” She asked, smiling even more sweetly and pitching her hips, which had the distracting effect of making her breasts jiggle again. “Er… What?” I stammered. “Yes, of course. Er… why?”

Still smiling, she came around to my side of the table, removing any remaining shreds of hope I may have had left that she hadn’t worked out what was going on in my trousers. She took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I grabbed my laptop as she swept me away from the table, gasping slightly as my hard cock slipped back and forth between the inside of my jeans and my belly.

“Because,” she said, as we exited, “You need to walk me home.” She paused as I stifled gasps with each step. “And because you need my help.”