This Ain't Literature

"Oh?" I smiled. "I play guitar. Want a lid, Ms B?"

"Sure. Thanks." She watched as I capped her drink, giving no sign she'd noticed my cock. Or, at least, not saying anything. It was still only halfway up, but I had to believe it was making its presence felt. When she spoke, she sounded shy. "I remember you playing, Cameron."

"Yeah?"

"You and that band." She was nodding. "I thought you guys should have won the talent show in February."

"Aww." I was punching at the register, glancing out of the corner of my eye to see what those jeans looked like over her mound. Nothing much, I saw; they weren't that tight. "I don't remember you being one of our fans." We'd had a small chain of loyal rooters, most of whom were our mothers. They'd called themselves our croupies, since our band was the Hacking Coffins. "I'm going to start you on our loyalty card, Ms B," I went on. "Every ten beverages gets you a free one. Fifty beverages and you fill up the card, and get a special prize."

"What's the prize?" she laughed at once, snicking her credit card into the reader. I waited placidly until she was looking back up at me, then I shrugged.

"Who knows?" I joined in her laugh. "Nobody's done it yet. We've only been open since March." I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Andrea was out of the picture, then leaned across the counter. She played along, leaning right in toward me, the skin of her chest beckoning from the shadows inside her shirt; the countertop hid my hard-on, which was now fully extended. "I think," I stage-whispered, "it means you get to come to work here. As the manager."

"I'd be your boss, then?" She chuckled. Her breath smelled like toothpaste. "No thank you. I remember you from class. You don't listen so good."

"Well," I corrected; it was the kind of thing she'd always done in class, and now she smacked my forearm playfully.

"Good," she repeated. "I was using ironic dialect, Mr Louck. It's a literary technique."

"This ain't literature, Ms Brett," I batted back. "It's just coffee." I slid her drink across to her and nodded. "You have a nice day, now."

She hesitated a moment, as though she had something else to say, but that's when Andrea decided to grace us with her presence. So Ms B just said, "Thanks!" and sauntered toward the door, her ass in glorious motion under the tight jeans, leaving me clawing at my dick. Andrea noticed with a scowl.

"Who was that?" she asked sourly. "Someone else you're banging?" My reputation, it seemed, preceded me. I just smiled at her.

"Not yet." I had no idea, really, just why I was so attracted to Ms Brett. Some of it was obviously the teacher-student thing, even though that was extinct now; I'd graduated. No, there was something else, and I was pretty sure I'd figured it out.

My penis had maintained a busy schedule since that eighteenth-birthday journey up Gianna Clewer's well-juiced hole. I hadn't really kept score, per se, but I figured I was well into double digits in just the eleven months since then. Thirteen or fourteen, probably, and most had been my classmates. Young women at the brink of twenty, their bodies as perfect as they'd ever be.

The rest? Still gorgeous, still young, still sweetly vulnerable to my growing boldness. The oldest woman I'd fucked was Becky, twenty-six, and she and I had only been doing it for a couple months or so at that point. Ms Brett was different from all of them. She was mature, with a life and a career and a past, and not a work in progress like the people my age.

She also looked different, her ass telling the tale as it passed out the door to the parking lot: she was lush, full-figured, a real woman with a husband who'd had a kid. Her body wasn't the same mindless perfection as the rest of the girls who'd turned me on; it was intriguing, different, something I wanted to get lost in. I found myself powerfully curious what her pussy would look like, how she'd groom it. I wondered, too, how she'd be when she came; so far, other than the obvious fakery of some of my younger fuckmates, I only had Becky to go on.

"I'm not going to fake it," Becky had declared early on. "If you make me orgasm, you'll know it." And did I ever know it; she was always up for it, her whole body taking part when I pushed her over the edge, and it had captivated me right away.

I wanted to find out if Ms Brett would scream my name.

But first, duty called. "Quit leaning on the counter," Andrea intruded. "Go mop the bathroom hallway." I wilted like a wad of cooked spinach as I turned away to do her bidding.

Andrea faked it. I knew she did.

* * *

I was practically bursting out of my pants when I drove home that night. I doubted Eva would be available, since Aidan had talked about a date or something; likewise my current backup Kayleigh, whom Andrea had put on the evening shift tonight. I suspected she knew the two of us were hooking up, even though we'd been extremely careful to clean up the damage we'd done to Andrea's office chair when Kayleigh had fucked me there.

So she was a no. But that was okay; my conversation with Ms Brett had me craving older meat, anyway. So I thumbed my phone and called Becky Lissner.

I always got great sex out of Becky, but there was a price to be paid. So, when I told my mom not to wait up and headed over to her place in my shitbox Kia, I was already trying to slow my roll; I knew I'd get to cum, and cum hard, straight into her wonderfully grippy snatch, but I also knew it would take awhile.

"Hi, Cam!" she said, her voice already smoky with lust even before she got the door all the way open. "I'm glad you're free tonight."

"Me too," I told her, stepping close so that I could curl my arm around her. I enjoyed groping her with her door open, so her neighbors could see. Her kiss was long and wet, her limber tongue stabbing straight into my mouth with the ease of long familiarity. She tasted like her vape pen. "Thanks for inviting me over."

She laughed coarsely, twisting out of my grasp to head for the kitchen. "You invited yourself over, buddy. Don't go sweet-talking me now." She pulled two beers from the fridge; this was another reason I liked her. No need for my fake ID. She popped the caps off and pressed mine into my hand. "Cheers."

"Hell yeah." I watched as she slunk toward her couch, all long legs and sinews standing out under her yoga pants. She collapsed into the same cushion she always sank into, the one molded to her bony ass. I let the cold, bitter beer wash down my throat, taking with it the muck of a day spent among coffee fumes.

She watched me narrowly, then nodded. "So why aren't you naked, stud?" she demanded quietly. "You know what I like."

I did. And I always gave it to her; the excellence and reliability of her pussy made sure of that.

Early on, I'd asked her about her need to watch me before she let me fuck her. She'd shrugged as though the answer was obvious. "I enjoy the male form," she'd snapped scornfully, visibly annoyed by my question; it was clear that she believed I only fucked philistines, which was probably true. So I shucked my clothes and, because I knew she'd ask, took my seat on her coffee table, cross-legged, so that she could watch me get hard for her.

She loved that shit.

She could sit motionless for fifteen or twenty minutes, I'd learned, leaning forward with her chin in her hand like some executive judging an architecture design, her lips pursed, tilting her head occasionally from side to side. She liked my dick... like, really liked it. She liked the shape of it, its profile. And once, in a sighing whisper, she'd confessed to me that she got wet when she knew I was as hard as I was going to get, and then realized she was about to feel me inside her.

That was always the moment, she told me, that she rose gracefully to her feet, took my hand, and knew it was time to get me into her bed. We always did it there; she thought it was uncouth to fuck in cars, and obviously I wasn't bringing her back to my mom's shitty apartment.

It was a little chilly in her condo, but I knew that wasn't the reason her nipples were poking bralessly out from beneath her shirt. She sat cross-legged on her couch, her pose mirroring mine, except that she was still wearing baggy pajama bottoms and I was completely nude. I felt my balls hanging low, grazing the cold tabletop. At first I'd done this on the floor, but then one day she'd shaken her head.

"No." She'd taken my hand and led me to the coffee table, spilling her Entertainment Weeklys onto the floor with a casually sweeping arm. "You're beautiful. You deserve a pedestal." I'd been confused; back then, all I'd really done with girls was jam it into whichever holes they offered, move vigorously around, and then shoot my load into or onto them, whichever they'd agree to.

Becky? Not so much. She'd sat back that first day and looked at my standing cock, her own hand casually stroking her vagina through the simple cotton panties she'd been wearing. "Do you know," she'd asked at length, like it was some great secret, "how perfect your dick is?"

I'd blinked. "Sure, baby." I'd reached for it, casually, getting ready to stroke it, but Becky had frowned.

"No! Let it wait." She'd sighed. "It needs to wait for me. Besides, you'll spoil the symmetry." I'd laid my hand obligingly on my knees, a little bemused, and things only got weirder when she went on from there. "I've never seen such a perfectly-shaped penis, Cam. It doesn't lean or bend. It's perfectly straight from the front, back, and sides. The hair is the right color, and thick and vibrant. Because you might only be eighteen, but you're a real man."

"I'm nineteen."

"Whatever. And your balls, Cam." She'd shaken her head, her hand busier on her panties. "Look down at yourself." I'd obeyed, curious to see what she saw, but alas. I just saw the same old scrotum I'd seen all my life. "They're so fucking low. So evenly sized. So full of cum. So... perfect." She'd raised her eyes, taking me in slowly. "You're a beautiful male, Cam."

I'd had no idea what to say. "Thank you?" It hadn't surprised me when I learned, later, that she was a graphic artist.

That's when she told me she'd never, ever fake it. And then we'd gone back to her bed and she'd given me a hard, blasting orgasm straight into the back of her tight little pussy, and after that I stopped caring so much that she liked to look at me.

It had been like that ever since with her, and now I felt like I'd unlocked a secret or something: that part of why I liked fucking her so much was because she knew exactly what she wanted. She wasn't shy or timid, and she didn't play games. She was a grown woman, not the usual tarted holes I fucked, and now that I'd seen Ms Brett again, I found that maddeningly attractive.

I tried to think about Ms Brett's ass that night when I long-fucked Becky from behind, growling my usual depraved bullshit into her ear, wondering idly as I drove my thumb into her asshole whether Ms B would like it the same way; but it was no use. Becky Lissner was not Lauren Brett. Their bodies were nothing alike, and as I watched Becky's muscular back surge beneath my thrusts, I knew with an absolutely unshakeable conviction that I wanted nothing else this summer but to see Ms Brett take my dick.

The thought made me cum harder. I think Becky noticed.

* * *

By the fourth day, I'd come to expect Ms Brett between two and three. She'd been in a hurry the day before, distracted on her phone and with barely a glance at me, though I did notice she made an effort to drop a dollar in the tip cup despite paying by credit card.

Nice of her.

It was different on that fourth day. She looked like she'd come from the gym or something, but she didn't smell like it. So probably she was just showing off, and why not? Ms Brett's tits were still just as impressive as they'd always been, only this time there was a whole lot more of them showing beneath an expensive-looking workout top and what had to have been a heavy-duty sports bra. The effect of that was really just to squash her boobs together, meaning cleavage like the Grand Canyon. Below was lycra clinging tightly everywhere along the little folds of her waist before spreading wide along her tempting hips.

I searched for cameltoe automatically, reflexively, and only then realized I should probably care if she saw me do it. But by then it was too late, so I went ahead and stared a few beats before I smiled at her. Her face, I mean. "My new favorite customer," I beamed. I'd picked up nothing definitive down below, but then her yoga pants were black. It's always tough to tell with those.

"You always were too nice for your own good," she laughed back. Dimples in full effect today, and she was already flushed; I'd been right. She did seem to like showing off for me. She laid her credit card and her loyalty card on the counter and looked down a moment. "Can I try something different today, Cameron?"

"Of course." I was watching her eyes carefully. I felt vaguely that that would impress her, keeping myself from losing myself in her chest. Besides, her eyes were gorgeous. "What'll it be?"

She went just a little bit redder, though it could have been my imagination. "Um. Why don't you pick? I'm not an expert in gourmet coffees."

"Thank god I am," I smirked, inwardly blown away; customers tend to be very picky about their beverages. I hadn't ever been asked to pick for them. She was smiling as I turned away. "I've been trained, you see."

She didn't say anything at that, but I wasn't terribly surprised; it was a throwaway line. If it worked, fine; if not? She'd still walked in here with her body on display, knowing I'd see it. Whatever flirtation she and I were doing, it was going fine for me. I glanced over my shoulder. "Got a craving for something sweeter today, Ms Brett?"

She hesitated, and I saw her eyes dart back and forth as she parsed her reply. "I never turn down something sweet," she said at last, and I smiled reassuringly.

"So, after today," I told her confidently, "you can tell all your friends you've had a Vietnamese coffee."

'Oh?" Her eyebrows rose. "Sounds exciting."

"You'll love it." I busied myself with my job, taking extra care; this wasn't a drink I made often, and it's easy to fuck up the layers.

"I bet." I could hear the heaviness as she hesitated again. She had something nagging at her, then. I waited; the store was just about empty, anyway. "So, Cameron," she said at last, "you're still playing guitar, right?"

"Occasionally. I'm sort of between bands at the moment." My buddy Jeff had been talking about starting one up with some singer babe he'd met named Abigail.

"Do you do any teaching? Like, lessons?" She went on quickly, as if afraid of my answer. "I think you'd be really good at that."

I smiled to myself. I knew where I'd stood at graduation, with her and the other English teachers; they'd always loved me, and once word spread that I wasn't going straight to college they'd all been kind of awkward around me. It amused me that she was trying to help me find a career now; I wondered whether she knew I was joining the Air Force. "Well, to tell the truth," I told her without turning around, "it's not something I've ever thought about."

I heard the awkwardness again before her next words came out in a low rush. "It's no biggie. But you remember that I told you how my kid likes music?" She chuckled. "When I picked him up on Wednesday, I told him my coffee was made by a rock star."

"No way!" I spun around, not even worried about how it would look to Andrea; she wasn't in today. It was just me and Brad, and Brad was barely competent enough to count the money at the end of the shift. I imagined I could have whipped it out and jacked off all over Ms Brett's coffee in full view of Brad, and he still wouldn't have found it in his soul to fire me. Or rat me out. I grinned. "Does he need an autograph?"

She laughed, the tension easing. "No, no. I thought you people did selfies now, anyway, not autographs?"

I let her see my smile spread slowly. "I mean, Ms Brett, if this is just a roundabout way of getting a pic with me..."

"No! Hell no!" She looked horrified, the words pouring out of her now. "No, I was just thinking that if you gave lessons, you know..." She trailed off, watching me carefully, worrying about offending me.

I stroked my chin. "I mean, I never have," I mused. "But, you know, I'll do anything for my fans."

She grinned again, her blush fading at last, and in a sudden instant I saw that her nipples were poking past her bra in twin blazes of glory, aiming at me like accusing fingers. She was clearly unaware of them, but I certainly wasn't. I couldn't be. They looked huge, even through heavy-duty lycra, and I felt that cock-twinge betraying me again. Goddamn thing. "I'm sure he'd be totally star-struck," she giggled.

I fingered the little measuring cup of condensed milk, the iced coffee in the other hand. "You pour carefully," I told her, affecting a serious air. "The trick is that the milk is supposed to be a distinct layer at the bottom of the cup."

"Really." She was staring, absorbed, at my hands.

"A nice, smooth, creamy pour..." I pulled it off, the two of us holding our breaths, the condensed milk nudging aside the lighter coffee in a bold viscous layer at the bottom. "See? Like that." She was nodding, her lip between her teeth, her nipples still fully deployed. I was going to ruin yet another pair of underwear, I could just tell. I let the silence stretch as the drink settled. "How much?"

"What?" She shook her head a bit, startled, her eyes narrowing. She frowned in confusion, glancing up at the menu.

"No, Ms B." I was speaking quietly, leaning on the counter. "Not the Vietnamese coffee; that's $3.75, plus tax. I meant how much per lesson for a bona-fide rock star to give lessons to your kid?" It was a whim, sure, but how hard could it be to teach the cowboy chords to an eight-year-old? "And I'm only in town until September 17^th. So it can't be anything extensive."

"What do you charge?" She was sliding her card into the reader.

I shrugged. "What would a babysitter charge?" She nodded. "Whatever that is, minus five bucks. Because I'm not babysitting." I slid the drink over to her. "You should stir this before you drink it, Ms B. The layer is just for show."

She was looking at me seriously. "You're sure about this? I feel like I bullied you into it."

I smiled my kindest smile. "Not even a little bit. I'm bored this summer; there's not much I have going on. Might as well. Does he already have a guitar? Or should I bring one?"

"Could you?"

"Of course." I had a shitty old Ovation I'd been looking to get rid of. Thing was worth about three hundred, tops; I figured I could get Ms Brett to pony up five when I offered to sell it to her at the end of the summer. "It'll be a little big for him, but he can deal. Right?"

"Sure." She had no idea, clearly. Her nipples were still proud and firm as she jabbed a straw into her beverage. "Like, when are you available?"

I made a decision and wrote my phone number down on her receipt without asking. "Text me. We'll figure it out." She took it, her eyes shining, and bit her lip again. Fuck. The precum was pulsing against my underwear; I could feel it, my cock cranked painfully to the wrong side.

She hesitated once more, a frown twitching at the sides of her mouth. "Whenever it is, could you come over and do the lessons at my house?" she asked, but then she seemed to think better of it as a cloud covered her face for a moment. "If that's not too weird."

I had to bite back my instinctive retort, and in the instant that I did so its speed and boldness scared me a little; I'm a big believer that a girl I'm into will eventually let me fuck her if only I stop thinking and let my mouth take over, saying the first things that come to mind. Those first replies are usually uncannily accurate. This time, my response to Ms Brett was almost on its way out when I tamped it savagely down.