CAFE ATHLETA
By morning, Café Athleta was just another café except for the Greek-statue-level men behind the counter. Kai, Joon, and Min weren’t baristas by trade. They were elite gymnasts, nationally ranked, training with the precision of artists and the bodies of gods. The café funded their dreams. But dreams have their price—and their perks.
Women flocked there for the “Date With a Latte” promo. Buy enough pastries, and you could sip your cappuccino across from one of the owners, who’d sit with you—shirtless, charming, perfectly tanned and toned—smiling as though you were the only one in the room.
Kai, with his sharp jaw and slicked-back hair, had the kind of body that made shirts irrelevant—broad chest, tight waist, and forearms roped with veins that always seemed to flex when he reached for his cup.
Joon was boyish and smooth, his smile soft but laced with mischief, with arms that stretched his tank top and thighs that barely fit the café’s wooden chairs. Min moved with quiet grace, his clean-cut style and gentle demeanor wrapped around a frame so dense with muscle it made jaws drop the moment he stood up.
But Café Athleta didn’t become legendary until after dark.
At 9:00 p.m., the door locked to the public. Only certain men entered now—those with deep pockets, tailored suits, and a taste for something bold.
The lights turned golden. Music changed—slow, bass-heavy. And out stepped the trio in nothing but tight, white speedos and soft black berets embroidered with Café Athleta. Every contour of muscle was visible, gleaming faintly with a sheen of oil. No aprons. Nothing to hide behind.
Each man took a shift behind the espresso bar, where the steam hissed and the crowd grew hungry—not for caffeine, but for the slow flex of Joon’s abs as he tamped espresso, the way Kai would bite his lower lip while pouring milk, or the casual swish of Min’s hips as he turned with a silver tray in hand.
The patrons tipped with thick rolls of bills—slid into waistbands, tucked under speedo straps, even pressed into palms with lingering fingers. For the right amount, Kai would climb into a lap, letting the scent of roasted coffee mingle with the heat of his skin. Joon might whisper tasting notes while straddling the armrest of a leather chair. Min, eyes low, would gently place a hand on a suited knee and offer a slow, wordless smile that said more.
Then came the night’s final order: The House Special.
Served only at 11pm, it was a custom brew—exclusive to the top three tippers of the evening. The room held its breath as the boys stepped onto the stage.
A table was set. Three steaming cups. And three small bowls of rich, sweet cream. Only, the patrons knew the ritual by now: this wasn’t just dairy. It was their semen they collected from each other that morning.
The boys circled the table, playful and slow, spooning cream delicately—then dipping fingers in and licking it from each other’s knuckles. Whipped swirls were drawn across abs and collarbones, then licked away with lingering mouths and cheeky winks.
As the room grew thick with anticipation and heat, the boys each approached one of the top patrons, looked them in the eye, peeled off their speedos, started beating their meat, and—without a word—added the final dollop of “cream” to their cups.
The men drank slowly.
And when the lights came up and the café closed at exactly midnight, everyone walked out flushed—hearts racing, coffees in hand.
Training resumed at dawn.
--------------
If you want advanced access to ten more chapters of the latest tagalog full fiction story ahead of blog readers and get other perks such as weekly teasers and a feature in one #squirtershorts within the month, please subscribe to patreon.com/jockwonderlust. If you want to support me and my craft, please subscribe!
No comments:
Post a Comment