LAZY COFFEE
The morning was quiet, just the hum of the kettle and the scent of roasted beans filling the townhouse. I wiped the counter again, waiting. My hands shook a little—not from the heat, but from knowing what was about to happen.
Then I heard the floorboards above, and he came down the staircase. The young executive, my boss. His body filled the room before he even spoke.
He was only in a tight white brief. His chest was broad, every line of muscle clear under his skin. His abs tightened as he moved, each step showing the discipline of hours in the gym. His thighs were thick, veins just under the surface, the kind of legs that could crush a man. But what made me stare was the bulge in his briefs, heavy and outlined by the thin fabric, swaying slightly as he walked. The cotton clung damp at the tip, a faint wetness he didn’t bother to hide.
When he turned at the kitchen counter, I saw the other side. His ass was high, round, cut deep by muscle. The briefs stretched across it like they were begging to tear. I had touched that ass before, on other lazy coffee days, when he pulled me upstairs and let me kneel behind him. My palms remembered the weight, the heat, how he pressed back until I couldn’t breathe. Sometimes he made me spread him wide, made me taste the sweat, the clean soap, the secret softness he never showed anyone else.
“Coffee,” I said, keeping my voice steady. I poured his favorite mix—dark, bitter, with a pinch of herbs that made him sigh.
He took the mug from my hand, and our fingers brushed. The simple touch made my chest tighten, because I remembered more than his hand. I remembered how those fingers had curled into my hair before, pushing me down, how they had traced across my lips after, wet with him.
He sipped, then set the mug down slowly, eyes half-lidded. A little grunt of approval, nothing more, but his body spoke louder. The bulge pushed harder against the damp fabric, thick and alive. My throat went dry.
Without a word, he turned and walked back up the stairs. His butt flexed with each step, perfect globes stretching the brief, the faint bounce of muscle with every move. The wet spot at his front had spread, glistening faintly in the light.
He didn’t shut the door. He never did.
I stood in the kitchen, tray in my hand, my whole body burning with memory. The taste of him, the feel of his thickness stretching my lips, the ache of his grip on my hips when he needed release. Those things lived in me now, ready to happen again.
The house was silent except for my breathing. I stepped onto the stairs, carrying not just the tray, but the hunger of all our past lazy coffee days. Upstairs, he was waiting, briefs tight, body ready, and I already knew exactly how the day would end.
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