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Counter-top Romance

She was only a barista, but she knew how to satisfy a customer
Spring break, and suddenly the streets are full of sexy little numbers newly released from school and eager to show the world what they’ve got. Sugar and spice and all things nice for the most part. And the niceness of it: the shiny-haired, clear-skinned, smooth-limbed innocent perfection of it the unknowing knowledge of their little gaits and glances, their total self-absorption and god knows what womanly wickedness going on underneath. It fills the dirty old onlooker with something darker and more delightful than mere lust.
The thought in my mind this early spring afternoon is neither death nor the maiden, but the tall so-whatness of the girl behind the counter in my upstate café. They come and go, these girls, never the same one twice it seems, ranging from the dumpy to the delirious. This one is somewhere in between, dark pulled-back hair and a rectangular somewhat sulky face, equipped with a ring or two piercing the pouty part. She wears her tits high, helped up and pushed out in a shiny magenta bustier-thing, imperfectly covered by one of those floaty, strappy chiffon tops. And though the tits seem large, they don’t seem to need a lot of help standing up by themselves, as far as I can see, and I’m seeing as much as I can without actually bending over.

I’m also observing her longish bare legs and her nice tight ass as she works with her back to me. When I lift my eyes I notice her observing me in the mirror above the coffee machine. Only a moment before I look away, pretending not to have looked but she knows, and she knows that I know.

She bends over a bit towards me as she fills my order, and looks at me directly before she sashays back into the kitchen. I feel hot and somewhat bothered.

So she saw me checking out her ass, and she showed me a bit of cleavage. But it means nothing. Why should it? She may be 20, 23 tops, probably a student with a boyfriend and a loan, doing a vacation job. I’m old enough to be her grandfather for fuck’s sake. But there was something about the hard look she gave me that was almost a challenge. Maybe she saw her wicked great-uncle or am I indulging in senile imaginings?

Probably, but that didn't stop me going back just before closing, no-one in the store but her. I had some idea about offering her a lift home, something lame like that, but there she was, back in the kitchen, and it seemed natural to go back there with her.

“Hey, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to be back here!” But she goes on saran-wrapping and fridge-filling.

“Thought I’d come visit.”

“You shouldn’t be back here.”

I lean back against the counter, watching her as she squats, her cutoffs not designed for such action.

“Go on,” she says, stopping to confront me, hands on her hips. Funny how that makes her tits stick out.

“Thought we might have a chat.”

“Are you kidding me?” A look says the rest, as in: “I’m young and lithe and desirable, and you’re not.” But her look also says, “Look at my tits.” So I look.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re de-lovely.” I knew she wouldn’t get the reference.

“Get out of here, okay? I’ve got a 911 button, right here. I press that, and you’re gone for five years.”

I lean off the counter, take a step towards her. “Go ahead.”

She lunges for the button. I grab her wrist. She squirms, tries to hit me with the other hand. I grab that too. She’s fighting me, not fighting for the button. She tries to bite me, but she doesn’t mean it. She could knee my balls if she meant it. I fend her teeth off with her own wrist, pushing her back against the counter. She leans back, hissing. “Get off me, you fucking old pervert.” But I’ve got my hips against hers now, grinding, The more she struggles, the more of me she gets. She’s gasping, grunting, teeth clenched, but not, interestingly, screaming. The door’s open, too.

I reach back to kick it shut, and she breaks free, running; but not for the door. She’s run herself into a dead end, around the corner between counters and cupboards, out of sight of the door. The button’s still there, on the counter. She could have reached it if she wanted to, but she ran back into the kitchen instead. She sees her mistake and tries to run past me, but I catch her, use her own momentum to swing her up on the counter, my hips between her thighs. She throws her head back to avoid my mouth, thrusting her tits out even more. Damn those tits but I have other ends in view. I’m wrestling with her cut-offs, finally wrenching them open and pulling them, pulling.

Now there is an interesting fact about a girl and her jeans, long or short. If she’s sitting on them and doesn’t want you in there, you’re not going to go. In this case, her struggles somehow matched mine and her bare ass was suddenly on the cold marble counter. I take a big chance, moving back and down to free her legs. She grabs my head between her thighs, crossing her ankles and squeezing for all she’s worth. Her arms are busy holding her top half up, so I get my hands under her ass, hauling her up to where I can work my ears free and my face down into what turns out to be a bare pussy, sweet, neat and not half as damned innocent as all that.

She has lovely, fluttery lips, and now she’s groaning and pushing up to get more of my tongue, spreading her thighs and convulsively tightening them again round my head. I’m getting some breath back, thank god, and enjoying the tour, surrounded by soft, smooth, fragrant girl-flesh. I give everything an all-over kiss-n-licking, finding an impossibly smooth mons and a groove which runs, but not yet. I part her cunt lips and concentrate on sucking and nibbling the petals, singly and together. Their owner is apparently eager for more, by the way she reaches for my tongue and gasps for more in the way of penetration.

So I reach into her damp depths with a finger or two. I’m immediately rewarded by some vigorous humping, even more when my fingers turn upwards and start rubbing on that sweet spot. She moves me around till she gets everything in the right place, and then starts ohh-ing and ahh-ing like a porn flick. Speaking of flicks, I am now doing just that to her clit, and, as she starts to come I take the whole lovely thing in my mouth and suck, hard. She comes like a train out of a tunnel, in a rush and a roar that almost busts my eardrums, then humps and grumps and gasps and groans her way back down the hill.

“Omigod, you bastard,” she mutters, “Total shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Sounds like a good idea to me, so I slide her off the counter and let her collapse on her knees. I extricate the fucking tackle, not without difficulty, and let her have it, to shut her up as much as anything. She’s avid, and quite expert, diving on my standard-size cock and gobbling it down like a cormorant, but then laying back and using her tongue in an educated fashion, treating it more like an all-day sucker than chewing it a Snickers bar. It swiftly ceases to be standard-size, throbs like a jackhammer and tries to burst out of its skin.

Very nice, and I almost come there and then, looking down at my cock pushing into her face, eyes shut, face shiny with sweat and pink with effort and lust, lips stretched tight and her hand cradling and squeezing my balls. But I can also see those tits, heaving and straining down there against the shiny magenta bustier thing, and it doesn’t seem fair to leave them out.

It turns out that the shiny magenta affair has hooks all the way down the back, as my erection bobbles under her ear. Once she gets the idea, she tries to help, but I give up on the hooks, haul out those melons and make her squeeze my cock between them, sucking and licking as much of the head as she can reach. Then I stand her up and give those wonderful tits a good sucking and slapping before I turn her round, bend her over and dump them onto the cool marble. I can hear them slide on the stone as I slide into her and start to fuck in earnest.

God, how she loves it, and it doesn’t seem to bother her that I’m telling her what a slut she is, what a bitch in heat, how she’s arching her back and spreading her legs to get more of a cock she’d never even imagined half an hour ago, how she’s the horniest little trollop in the county, flexing her fuck-me buns, gasping and grunting and pushing her greedy tight cunt back into me.

To give myself something to think about and stop myself coming too fast, I let her fuck me while I unhook the bustier, throw it away and grab those lovely tits. Soft and heavy, smooth as silk except for the hard, marble-cold, jutting nipples and the textured aureolas. Her whole body stiffens as I take each cold nipple between finger and thumb and squeeze, hard. She jerks back into me, arches high and starts to come again, head on her hands, wailing softly this time, head lifting as she climaxes, then falling back on to her hands.

She shudders all over, then subsides, goes limp and lets me fuck her like a sex doll, holding her hips and banging her till I come, so hard that I almost collapse. My cock slips out and I feed it back into the slippery deep, feeling her cunt-muscles try to get a grip on it as I slowly come down out of that high place, stroking her long bare back and telling her how beautiful she is. At last I make her stand and turn to me and finally we kiss, like innocents, for the first time. She kneels down then of her own accord and gives thanks, gently, to my cock.

And by the time that was done she was ready for more. She shut up shop, turned out the lights, and I finally got to take my pants off.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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