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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Hot Coffee 1/1 {J Frnkln} (MF rom slow safe oral <*>)
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My first ever post, so please be gentle!


{ASS} Hot Coffee 1/1 {J Frnkln} (MF rom slow safe oral <*>)

Legal Disclaimer and Warning (Please read, apologies for the length)
====================================================================
Warning - this story is intended for an adult audience and includes
explicit sexual scenes.  If you are below the legal age to view,
download or possess such material in your area, please obey the law and
stop reading now.  I will only post this story to appropriate, erotic-
fiction newsgroups - please do not repost or distribute it in such a
way as might risk it being seen by those below the appropriate age or
adults who do not wish to see such material.  I believe that by posting
this story I am breaking no laws either where I post (in the UK) or
elsewhere.  However, any law enforcement personnel or concerned
citizens who wish to enlighten me otherwise are invited to do just that
by emailing me at the address given at the end of this post.  On
receiving such notice and finding that I am, in fact, in violation of
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previous messages I am able to.
	Permission is granted for this story to be archived and
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If you want to charge for it, get in touch, my fees are very reasonable.

Hot Coffee
==========
Cold didn't even begin to describe it.

The snow, swirling in thick, ill-tempered flurries seemed determined to
lodge itself in whatever chinks it could find in Emma's carefully
chosen winter armour. Her lower legs, the small gap above the collar of
her overcoat, the nape of her neck where the scarf rode up to reveal
skin already peppered with white flecks.  She was thankful for the
thick, imitation fur hat she was wearing - at least most of her hair
was staying dry!
	The cold cut through even the soft, thick wool of her overcoat
and she huddled lower, as if trying to duck the flurries. It was
impossible to move at more than a slow walk.  The pavements were glazed
with invisible, treacherous ice, and even if she wanted to risk a
sprained ankle, the crowds of shuffling commuters on all sides of her
would make trying to hurry futile.
	She gazed down the street ahead of her, straining to make out
the sign of the place he'd told her about amongst all the others.  The
brightly-lit shopfronts lit the snow with a false yellow warmth, the
flakes like so many fireflies against the black January sky.
	She almost missed it.  The white-brick front didn't call
attention to itself, and the sign over the door was a simple wooden one
- handwritten cyan letters on a jet-black background: "Vee's Coffee
Palace".
          She looked up and down the street.  The shop was like a dark
little island, lost in a vast sea of screaming, flickering neon.
Through the window set into the thick wooden door she could see a mass
of people - so many that it was hard to gauge the size or shape of the
room inside, the walls almost hidden by people leaning against them,
most of them nursing gleaming, oversized cups in bright primary
colours.
	The eclectic crowd inside were a sharp contrast to the sea of
besuited city workers who swarmed around her.  There was a dreadlocked
man with a small beard chatting to a woman in her early twenties in
sweater and jeans.  A couple of goths were (predictably) in the corner,
next to two men in suits and a man in full biker leathers.  As she
watched, one of the two men nibbled the other's earlobe.  Entranced,
she swung open the door, noticing how heavy it was.  "Keep Out," it
seemed to scream to the ant-column of identical suits outside, an oak
guardian between the damp, soulless misery outside and the warm
delights within.
	She was almost pushed back outside by the combined wave of heat
and noise.  A cacophony of jokes, discussions and requests for more
coffee rose around her as she moved forwards.  It was crowded, but not
uncomfortably cramped.  People moved aside to let her pass - quite
different to the closed-huddle crowds of a bar or night-club.  No hands
caressed her rear, no drinks spilled over her as she moved through into
the centre of the large room.  The atmosphere was inviting, not
threatening: happy, not raucous.
	She saw now that the room was much larger than it had appeared
from the window.  The walls were clean, white-painted brick, like the
exterior.  Brightly coloured rugs seemed to float on the gleaming wood
floor like so many slices of marzipan atop a layer of warm caramel.
Between them, plump white sofas and armchairs sat like marshmallows
strewn around by the hand of a good-natured giant.  Sprawled on a sofa
in the heart of this sumptuous scene was Dave.
	He was looking good, clad in his usual sleek chic black jeans
and turtleneck.  He'd let his stubble grow into a casual yet carefully
controlled shadow, and was sporting black suede shoes with silver
laces.  A bag with a subtle designer logo by his side probably
contained his laptop.  Emma reflected that, in any other decade, he'd
have had to be an accountant, or perhaps a lawyer.  But this was the
nineties, and the rich were switched on.  Dave was a web designer, a
splicer of hot graphics and cool code.
	  He glanced in her direction and saw her, a smile breaking
across his face instantly.  He dimpled when he smiled - she'd noticed
that when she first met him.  He moved the bag to the floor and she sat
down beside him, shrugging off her coat and dropping her hat on top of
it.  Both immediately beginning to steam, their white dusting turning
to glistening rivulets that began to spot on the floor.
	"Found it, then?"
	"No probs.  Christ, it's _freezing_ out there."
	"Let me get you a coffee.  Best coffee in London, this place-"
	"Let _me_ get it.  I want to have a look round this place.  Do
you want anything?"
	He held up a half-full cup in answer, and she stood and turned
towards what she took from the crowd of backs facing her to be the
serving area.  She joined what seemed to be the end of the queue, which
extended the full length of the counter, its dark wooden length topped
with a soft-edged cream top like some huge slice of carrot cake.  Now
she could see the staff behind the counter, the array of whistling,
hissing, clanking coffee machines along the back wall, the racks of
bright coloured cups as shiny as hard-boiled sweets.  Near the ceiling
were blackboards detailing a bewildering range of concoctions involving
coffee, chocolate, milk, or all three.  The wall below these was
entirely covered in mirrors, reflecting a dizzying view of the whole
queue and, behind them, the rest of the room.
	Disorientated, it took a couple of seconds before Emma found
herself in the reflection.  There... standing next to a man in an
expensive gilet and combat trousers.  A sheet of mahogany hair that
hung midway down her back, shot through with hints of darkest auburn.
She brushed back from her face as she focused on herself.  Pale skin,
_very British_.  Eyes too big, too round, _scared-looking_.  She liked
her lips.  Full and pouty.  _At least something's the right shape_.
She suddenly realised she'd started pouting in the mirror and, cheeks
reddening, looked away before someone noticed.
	She asked for something called a "Howie's Special" - thick,
strong coffee with a chocolate ice cream float, a layer of cream and
milk chocolate shavings.  With a spoon.
	It was delicious - the cream wickedly luxuriant, the chocolate
shavings melting on the roof of her mouth.  The chocolate ice cream was
made with real cream, smooth and delicious, perfectly balanced by the
dangerous muscle of the coffee underneath. She sat back on the sofa and
stretched, one arm thrown carelessly behind her.  Her breasts lifted
wantonly, the low neckline of her close-knit black cardigan displaying
a generous amount of cleavage and allowing Dave a very tempting view.
	"So what do you think?" He asked as she paused between sips.
Emma turned to look at him.  He really _was_ good-looking.  He'd
developed a glowing tan from all his trips to California, and this,
coupled with his stubble and dark eyes gave him an alluring presence.
Leaning back on the sofa, half-turned to her, he reminded her of a cat,
his muscles coiled under his body-hugging clothes.  She blinked and
realised she had yet to reply.  "Very good. They use good chocolate,
and it's not too sweet."
	"The _place_. What do you think of the _place_?"
	"Oh."  She gazed around, feeling utterly at home, taut nerves
already unwinding, basking in the coffee shop's warm vibes.  "Great.
Really great.  Nice crowd.  Very mixed."
	"Lot of arty types.  Some caffeine junkies.  Mixed
gay/straight, too." She smiled.  The way he said it, she could almost
hear the slash.
	"I like it."
	He beamed, and settled back, nestling into the cushions in a
way that made him look even more cat-like.  "It's one of my favourite
places..."
	They sat in contented silence for a moment.  She'd been nervous
about this meeting.  She'd only met Dave twice before, through mutual
friends.  On the first time they'd smiled politely, talked.  On the
second he'd suddenly, unexpectedly asked her out.  And now she was on
the first date she'd had in a month, wondering what his next move would
be, what his would be.  A dinner date she could have handled.  Food,
wine, idle chatter, a cab ride either alone or together.  Here the
rules were much less well-defined.  She didn't know whether to flirt or
make small-talk, be direct or mysterious.  She decided to go with
mysterious and hope he didn't take it for aloof.  She settled back,
snuggling into the soft white cushions.  It was so warm in here... she
yawned softly.
	"Tired?"
	"Exhausted."
	"Heavy night?" He said it with just the tiniest hint of
mischief.  Emma raised her head slightly and looked at him through her
eyebrows.
	"Meaning?"
	"Meaning nothing..." A wide-eyed innocent look, laughter in his
eyes.
	"What about you?"
	"Oh, I'm fine.  Sweet dreams.  What did _you_ dream about?"
	The question was simple, thrown like a smooth, perfect stone
into a plate-glass window.  She blanched, started to say something,
hesitated.  She'd dreamt of him last night.  He was looking at her, the
innocent look gone, his eyes staring straight back at her, pinning her,
daring her to deny what he already knew.
	She blinked, took a sip of coffee to cover herself, and
mentally slapped her cheek.  She could play too, damn it!  She nodded,
smiling slightly.  "It was nice."
	He pounced instantly. "Anyone I know?"
	"Maybe."
	He was grinning now. "Good dream?"
	She closed her eyes, paused, savouring it, then looked him
straight in the eye.
	"Adequate."
	He blinked.  Just once.  He was confident, she had to give him
that.  He rallied fast.  "Well, I hope tonight's is better."

	She stretched out her legs, making sure the skirt stayed where
it was so that she revealed another tantalising inch of thigh before
she pulled the hem down again.
	"We'll see." She stretched her ankles, pointing her toes. "God,
my feet ache..."
	"You know, I give a good foot rub."
	She tilted her head to one side. "That wasn't a hint."
	"I know." And before she could stop him, he stood, moved around
to her feet and took off her left shoe.  He sat cross-legged on the
rug, facing her.
	"Admit it, this is just a cheap excuse to sneak a peep up my
skirt."
	"Not at all, merely sharing the benefit of my skills."
	He placed the balls of his thumbs against the sole of her foot
and started stretching the aching muscles.
	"You do this a lot?"
	"Quite a lot."
	"With every woman you meet?"
	"Only some."
	"Which, the ones you want to flirt with?"
	"You think this is flirting?"
	"Isn't it?"
	"This is being friendly.  If I looked you in the eye," he said,
looking her in the eye, "and told you your earlobes looked very
nibbleable, that would be flirting."
	"You think my earlobes look very nibbleable	?"  He wasn't
kidding about being good. His fingers were soothing every knot out of
her feet, the muscles melting into his hands.  He gently put the foot
down, took off her other shoe and started on that one.
	"I didn't say that, I  merely said that if I did say that, then
that would be flirting."
	"But you did say it."
	"Only as an illustration."
	"Are you implying there's something wrong with my earlobes?"
	He stopped, and looked at her.  "Emma," he said sincerely, "You
have quite the most nibbleable earlobes I've ever seen."
	There was a pause.
	"So we're flirting now?" she asked innocently.
	"It would appear so, yes." He looked up at her, questioningly.
She stared back at him.  There was a long pause, neither wanting to
break the gaze.  Eventually she said, very deliberately, "Well now that
we're flirting, I don't think I can allow you back on the sofa.  Who
knows what might happen?"
	He coughed in mock astonishment. "You think you can ban me from
the sofa?  What makes you think you have unilateral sofa rights? I
claim sofa rights.  I was there first."
	"Doesn't being a lady count for anything?"
	"You expect me to sit down here on the floor and rub your feet
without reward?"
	"What sort of reward did you have in mind?"
	"Well..." He looked away, looked back, smirking. "I was rather
hoping you might relax those thighs you have clamped so tightly
together..."
	Emma reached behind her, picked up a throw cushion and used it
as the name suggested she should.  It bounced off his head as he
collapsed in giggles, and she found she was laughing too.
	He waved a white paper napkin.  "Truce?  Can I apply for sofa
citizenship?"
	"I don't know... I must warn you, it's a very long and drawn
out application procedure."
	He stood, moved over to stand beside her legs, towering over
her so that she was forced to stare up at him.  The proximity, she
realised, was by no means unpleasant. "Is there anything I can do," he
asked, and leant closer, "to cut through," and now their lips were
scant inches apart, "the red tape?". And then he kissed her.
	It was firm, powerful.  Emma's lips seemed to open of their own
accord, willingly falling powerless beneath his.  The tip of his tongue
touched her lip, experimentally, testing, then it was pressing
insistently into her, her own meeting it, warm waves of desire rushing
through her as if by kissing they'd completed some complex circuit.
When they broke part of her was still reeling, almost unsure if it had
actually happened.
	He lifted his head slightly, the questioning look in his eye
disappearing as she smiled.  A little voice in her head asked her what
on earth she thought she was doing and where exactly she expected this
to lead, but she ignored it.
	He grasped her wrists and gently helped her up.  "Come with
me." And, picking up his bag and picking up a jacket from beside the
sofa, he started walking towards the back of the room.
	She grabbed her hat and coat and followed him.  The little
voice started to ask her if this was a good idea, but at that point she
gave it a mental kick in the head and it shut up.
	He opened an unmarked door and ushered her through it, closing
it behind them.  A storeroom, she had time to ascertain, bags of coffee
and sugar on shelves that reached from floor to ceiling, a single
lightbulb dangling overhead, the air chill.  Then he was pressing her
back against the wall, her back against soft  bags of brown sugar and
her eyes closed as his mouth met hers.  She felt his hands in her hair,
running his fingers through the soft strands, then sliding down her
neck, warm skin on her cool flesh.  Down over her shoulders, her upper
arms, down to her sides.  His tongue in her mouth, then gone, his teeth
nibbling at her upper lip, mouths sliding over one another in a
desperate rhythm.  His hands rising up her waist, up and, as she held
her breath, over her breasts, the thumbs on her nipples, rubbing...
	She trailed her hands down his back, feeling the muscles moving
underneath the thin fabric. His hands were at her cardigan, pulling it
upwards, her  stomach bared.  His mouth left hers and as he pushed the
fabric higher to reveal the smooth gloss of her bra, she opened her
mouth to protest, then gasped as she felt his lips like fire near her
navel, laying a trail of kisses upwards.  His stubble grazed her skin,
every touch making her lose a little more control until at last he was
at her bra, tongue tracing the curve of the base of her breast.
Suddenly he pushed the bra upwards, at the same time unfastening the
clasp behind her so that it fell loose, her breasts jumping free, the
firm globes pale as moonlight, the light pink nipples already hardening
in the chill air.  For a second she considered the situation - the
unlocked door, the fact she hardly knew him.  And then his lips found
her nipples, and she realised she didn't give a fuck anymore.
	One hand brushed her cheek, then slid down to cup a breast,
thumb circling the nipple, his mouth enveloping the other, tongue
lashing at the nipple, slick and hot and hard in his mouth.  She had to
bite her lower lip to stop herself crying out, it felt so good.  He
took her other breast in his mouth, nibbling lightly at the areola as
she locked her fingers deep into his dark hair and pulled her against
him.  Then his mouth was on hers again, his fingers at her breasts,
teasing the now-moist flesh.  She bucked against him, their bodies
writhing as one, a low moan escaping her as she felt a warm rush of
pleasure sweep through her, spreading out from her breasts, spreading
down between her thighs.
	He stepped back, his breathing quick.  His hands worked quickly
at her skirt: a button sliding free,  the zip dragged open in one
movement.  It fell from her hips, landing in a soft pool around her
feet.  His fingers were already in the waistband of her tights, drawing
them down.  Time seemed to stop.  Rasp of nylon as they sang down her
thighs.  Momentary shock as she realised her knickers were gone, far
too late to do anything but press her shoulders against the shelves,
kick her legs out and let him draw them off her.  She heard her shoes
clatter on the floor, then her bare feet were touching the cold lino
and she was practically naked, long white legs gleaming in the glare of
the bulb, her thighs like white satin, the soft triangle at the
juncture of her thighs shadowed almost black.
	They stared at each other, both drawing in long, shuddering
breaths in the sudden silence.  And then he was dropping to his knees,
one hand on the soft inside of each thigh.  Emma's back arched as his
tongue found the hardening bud of her clit, immediately licking
downwards to her outer lips, drawing along their curves, the tip
lovingly tracing each outline.
	"Oh. God..." she whispered, speaking for the first time since
they'd entered the room.  His hands swept up the backs of her thighs,
up to her buttocks.  His tongue moved deeper, tensed, hard, searching
out her core.  She drew in a sharp breath as it thrust deep inside her,
tasting her juices, his face deliciously hard against her softness.  He
began a slow, tantalising rhythm, circling, drawing back and forth, his
fingers pulling her closer in to him, drawing her hips away from the
wall so that she had to lean back against it with her shoulders and
brace her feet wide apart to stop herself falling.  Her legs were
trembling, her head spinning.  He drew back a little and moved his
mouth to her clit, simultaneously bringing the a fingertip to her
soaking labia.  He pressed it slowly into her as his tongue began to
lap at her clit, slow, insistent circles.  Now she did cry out, a low,
keening moan, not caring who heard.  His finger pressed deeper, sliding
all the way inside her.  He began drawing it slowly out of her, then
quickly back in, and she clenched her muscles, trying to speed her
pleasure.  He responded by withdrawing it completely, then, just as she
thought she'd have to beg him to continue, slowly slid two fingers
inside her.  He gently hooked his fingers, found her g-spot even as the
circling on her clit reached fever-point.  She felt a finger, moistened
with her own juices, between her buttocks, at her anus, and suddenly
her hips were bucking, all control lost, knuckles white on his
shoulders as the orgasm ripped through her.  She threw her head back as
it subsided trying to suck air into her lungs.
 	Eyes closed, she heard him stand.  A buckle opening, jeans
falling, boxers sliding over skin.  She opened her eyes, saw him
already hard.  He was trying to put on a condom, fingers clumsy in his
haste.  She pushed him back a step, took the condom from his hand and
gripped him around the base, heard his gasp at her cold palm on the
burning flesh.  She rolled it on, admiring his long, perfect length,
the rich brown satiny skin, the soft black curls of hair.  And then he
was pressing forwards and she was spreading her legs wide, feeling the
tip of him at her outer lips, her hands on his buttocks as he spread
her, entered her, slid right up inside her, her mouth on his neck as he
filled her completely.  He began to thrust immediately, and her pelvis
was moving, her hips pressing hard against him, matching him move for
move.  His mouth at her ear, breath hot as from a furnace.  "_I dreamed
of this.  I dreamed of fucking you from when I first met you._"
	Their tempo increased, her fingers hard at his buttocks,
clawing at him, wanting all of him inside her.  His mouth met hers
again, the taste of her own juices on her lips.  Mad, frantic kissing
as he slammed into her again and again and again, the base of his penis
rubbing at her clit, sending her over the edge... her insides melting,
clutching one another wildly as they came together in a panting, animal
climax.  He stepped back, eyes wild, seeing hers huge and staring.
They breathed together for a second, long shaky gasps as they
recovered.  And then he snickered.  And she giggled.  And they both
began to laugh uncontrollably, holding each other up, bodies pressed
together, unspoken promises that this was only the beginning.
	They dressed and gathered their things, a joyful panic hurrying
them, a desire to be alone.  They burst back into the coffee shop,
still laughing.  If anyone was looking at them, they were too busy to
notice.  Emma reclaimed her shoes and then, arms wrapped around each
other, they stepped back out into the snow.


Comments, reviews, suggestions, requests very welcome.  Email
jamesfrnkln at My-Deja dot com.








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