Libations

by Penelope L'Amoreaux

  “I’m not drinking pot coffee, that is disgusting.”

  You turn and glare. “It isn’t pot, damnit. It is the coffee plant’s leaves. In the Middle East it is called qat. It supposedly adds a feeling of euphoria. People have been drinking tea from the leaves longer than the roasted coffee we know.”

  Your voice is tight, gruff. The history and presentation isn’t fun for you anymore. Good. I am ready to have you in me, not lecturing me. The water kettle is on. I am just finishing grinding the beans. I enjoy the drag of the pestle through the grounds, the roughness of it. While I’m still focused on you, I have to admit the smell of the coffee grounds is amazing.

  You grab the mortar from me and dump the grounds in with the leaves. The kettle is steaming.

  You pour the hot water in and close the press. I watch your strong hand grip the top of the press, slowly, agonizingly slow, pushing it down to the base, reluctant bubbles forcing their way to the top in your historical brew. I want those hands on me. Now.

  I stand up and move to grab some mugs. Bringing them over, I set them on the counter and stand close to you. You smell like sweat and coffee. I lean in and lick your salty, bare shoulder.

  “Wait.” You move away, leaving me frustrated in so many ways.

  Carefully you pour the coffee into the mugs. “In the traditional ceremony you brew it three times, or drink three cups. I don’t remember.”

  You do remember, you are just mad at me because I’ve ruined your show. It makes me eager. I don’t recognize this part of me, the part that takes joy in your anger, in hurting you. It feels nasty, thick, and black like the coffee you hand to me but in this moment I don’t give a shit.

  “Bottoms up.” I sip it. It is so bitter I spit it back into the cup.

  You make a tiny sound of disgust and hand me an opened can of condensed milk. Gross. But I don’t back down, pouring a little of the heavy, sweetened milk into my cup. Ignoring the heat, I stick my finger in and stir. Then I drink. Tipping the cup up, I drain the strong sweet/bitter mixture.

  Your mug slams onto the counter. “Why do you make everything so difficult?” You ask.

  Because sometimes it is all I can do just to not punch you in the face. I shrug. “I dunno.”

  “Maybe you should go.” You turn to put the mugs in the sink, your shoulders sinking in defeat. NO, I think, or maybe my pussy does, because I’ve wanted you and put up with your show and you are going to give me what I want.

  My hand moves before I think about it, striking you across the face. The mugs fall to the floor and shatter, coffee spraying the kitchen tiles. It will probably stain the grout. That isn’t important right now. What is important is the heated look you are giving me. The burning in your eyes pulls on my groin and my panties are wet.

  When you bend to pick up the shards I reach under the hem of my shirt and yank it off.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want you.”

  “You’ve been a bitch. I don’t want you.” But that is a lie, and I can see it. Your breathing is a little faster. When you stood up you stepped closer. We are almost touching.

  Leaning in, I nuzzle your neck. A groan rumbles in your chest.

  “I can’t. I’m too upset with you.”

  “You can. Take it out on me.”

  You gulp, your Adam’s apple moving under my tongue. “Is that what you want?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t need to. I just reach behind and start to untie your apron. Roughly you grab my wrists. Clamping both wrists in one large hand, you squeeze until I feel tiny bones move. I can’t help it, I whimper.

  “I thought this is what you wanted.”

  You use your other hand to pull the tie off of the apron. It comes out quickly, one long, striped rope. You use it to tie my wrists together.

  Standing in cold spilled coffee, bound, I watch as you begin to strip. It goes quickly--you weren’t wearing underwear under your jeans. Grabbing the rope tying me, you jerk me to the counter. In one quick movement you’ve lifted me onto the cold granite.

  Your hands twist into my hair, hard, as your bring your face to mine. Our mouths meet roughly, teeth and tongues clashing. I can taste the coffee on your tongue. You bite my lip and in that moment it hits--the gulped coffee. An exhilarating mix of caffeine speed and euphoria hit and before I can help it I moan loudly.

  Your mouth moves along my jaw, down my neck. In my heightened state it feels incredible and uncomfortable, like tiny ants are moving under my skin, under your touch. My skin erupts in goose pimples.

  Your fingers scratch down my ribs, reaching around behind to unclasp my bra. You can’t take it entirely off because my hands are bound, so you let it hang around my wrists. I wiggle on the counter, jutting my tits out, hoping you’ll touch them. Instead you pull back, staring at me with dangerous intent.

  “You have not been a nice girl.”

  I laugh in your face. Not nice? I can be a down-right bitch and I want you to know it.

  You pull me off the counter quickly, yanking my jeans down so they hang around my ankles. Your strong hands then grip my hips hard, spinning me around. I try to keep up but my jeans trip me and I fall, sprawling half-way over the counter.

  The freezing granite makes my nipples so tight they hurt a little. My legs dangle and my ass is in the air. You put your hand in between my shoulder blades and hold me down. I hear you bend briefly, and then you are standing again, your hand now placed firmly on my lower back. I try to lift up but you quickly push me back down. I hear a crack behind me.

  “What are you doing?” My voice is muffled by the counter.

  It doesn’t take long to find out. Your belt slaps across my bare thighs, hard. The sharp surprise makes me grunt.

  “Wait--”

  Slap. Your belt strikes me again, harder, across my bare ass. I relish the sting, and my clit begins to ache for your touch. I love the trepidation, the fear that comes in the moments between the hard slaps of your belt.

  “You’ve. Been. A. Very. Big. Bitch.” Each word punctuated with a hard hit of the belt. My heart is racing because of the caffeine, my tits and face are freezing on the counter, and the skin on my ass is on fire from your belt.

  There is a soft thump as your belt hits the floor.

  I move my hips a little, relishing the burn that comes from it. My cunt is so wet I can feel it begin to drip a little down my thighs.

  You move behind me, your hands gently caressing my hot skin. My eyes close, the soft and euphoric feeling of your fingers causing ripples of pleasure. Maybe you were right about the qat, because I feel incredible.

  Your fingers reach between my legs, stroking me. Gasping, I try to open my legs further so you can touch me, but my jeans are still around my ankles, limiting me. You ignore me. The tight fit heightens the sensation as your finger continues to stroke my pussy slowly.

  Two fingers dip into me. You move slowly, your hips nudging me from behind while you pump your fingers in and out. I could come from this alone and your know it. Just as I get close, my stomach and pussy tightening, you withdraw your fingers. I whine in protest. I want to hate you for it, but mostly I want you to return to my snatch.

  Your hands move to my shoulders. I feel the residual sticky wetness on the hand that had just been deliciously violating my cunt.

  You help lift me up and turn my body to face yours. When I glance up all I can see are your dark eyes smoldering with lust. I match you erotic look for erotic look. My tongue peeps out and I lick my lips, daring you.

  You moan and lift me until I am sitting on the counter again.

  “Lay down, keep your ass on the edge of the counter.”

  Hastily I comply. Before your bossiness was a turn off, but right now I would jump through flaming hoops to get your big cock inside of me. My ass is sore on the granite from your belt, but I relish the pain. My pussy is so wet by this point I think I could come stars if you would just get around to fucking me.

  While I deliberate on what I can
say to provoke you into just that, you grab the French press, which still contains hot coffee. When you bring it over to me, I feel a tiny twinge of fright.

  “What are you doing?” My voice is tight with fear.

  Instead of answering, you hold your empty hand out and slowly pour a small dribble of the coffee on it. You hiss as the hot, black liquid runs in rivulets and drips to the floor. Stopping, you lick away any remaining coffee. I am in a trance watching your tongue dance across the skin of your large, strong hand. Cleaned, you hold it out for me to see. The skin is slightly pink—the coffee is hot still, but not scalding.

  That pink hand touches my belly, fingertips swirling and whorling over my hips, my ribs, my breasts. Quickly you pinch my nipple, hard. I cry out in pain and surprise, but after the throbbing in the abused nipple ebbs, it feels incredible. Tings of pleasure shoot straight to my groin and I moan.

  Your hand flattens out and slaps my other breast, hard, causing my tits to shake and jiggle. I let out a tiny laugh.

  “Do you think that’s funny?” You don’t sound amused at all. To prove it, you pinch my other nipple. And then slap my tits, hard. I let out a little shriek in surprise. It hurts, but the blood is rushing to my skin and suddenly my breasts are as sensitive as my clit, fearing and yearning for your harsh punishment.

  You continue alternately pinching and pulling my nipples and slapping my tits with one hand while your other holds the French press. It is intoxicating to watch, though I struggle to pay attention because the pleasure is building. If I can’t come soon, I might be capable of murder.

  Finally I struggle to avoid your hitting hand. Immediately you put it on my chest, holding

  me down. Your hips wedge in between my dangling legs and suddenly I feel so open and exposed, pink abused skin and swollen, wet pussy splayed out on the counter like a fruit spread at a party.

  Your hip rubs gently against my pussy and I sigh. This is it, finally, you are going to fuck me.

  But you don’t. Ever so slowly you bring the French press over me. I watch in trepidation as you tilt it. A small stream of coffee spills out, splashing on my sensitive tits. It is hot, burning like when the stove has just been turned off and doesn’t quite burn you but smarts in a way you remember.

  “Oh, Jesus, that’s too hot.”

  “You’ll be fine, trust me.”

  I do, I realize. Even in my irritation with you, my anger when you do all of the things I hate, even in this petty and spiteful fuck, I’ve always trusted you. There is, in this moment of hot gushing liquid spilling onto my sensitive skin and my mind heightened by its drug-like properties, a moment of clarity mixed with my desire.

  Trust is what makes my panties go wet the minute you flex your large forearms around me, or give me a look with hooded lids that promises some dark and forbidden pleasure. You’ve never really hurt me, physically or emotionally.

  As the pink valleys cool where the coffee has run off of my skin (it’s pooling beneath me on the counter), I need you to be inside of me so badly my cunt hurts.

  You’ve been roasting me with your belt and your hands, changing my skin, bringing out the smells and textures of my desire. I’m hot and I’m pink and I’m so, so ready.

  As if you know what I’m thinking, you whisper “not yet.”

  I can’t help it, I let out a low, keening wail. Not ready yet? Have you not felt the liquid heat of my cunt, sopping and aching?

  You remove the top from the press and unceremoniously dump the grounds and leaves onto my chest and stomach. Slowly, both hands reach up and begin to spread the tiny hard granules and soaked leaves around. Gentle at first, you soothe the tender skin of my breasts.

  The coarse grinding of the tiny, hard grounds is luxurious, just shy of painful. My nerves are on fire.

  I wiggle my hips and wrap my legs around you, grinding against your hip as your hands massage and grind the coffee into my skin. This is it, I can feel my tender clit rubbing against your hip bone, I’ve been roasted and I’m grinding and my cunt is getting tighter, hotter, and I’m grinding and--

  Your hands grip my hips and you shift before plunging into me. My cunt is stretched around your big cock as it violates me. The grounds on your fingers are cutting into my skin as you grip tighter, pounding into me harder. My bound hands flop above my head, I can’t help it, I’m helpless against your merciless dick.

  My mind is soaring; my heart feels like it will beat out of my chest and my god, I am on fire as you furiously fuck me. The walls of my pussy tighten and I climax hard, every muscle in my body tensing and writhing. My orgasm is long and I hear you cry out as you cum inside of me, too.

  You pull out of me with a wet whoosh and I am left feeling empty, a shell of what I was when I first walked through that kitchen door. I let you help me up and lead me to the shower. We don’t talk as your hands become tender and gentle as they untie my wrists and as you soap and wash my body clean.

  When I step out of the shower you towel me off gently, as if afraid of hurting my skin. You step out of the shower room and I am left alone in front of the mirror and I see why you took such gentle care. My skin is shiny and pink, having just been slapped and exfoliated during your coffee demonstration.. It is beautiful and I feel just like that raw, green coffee bean again.

  Your voice carries from the bedroom.

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  I sigh.

  “It can wait a little longer.”

  Full Bodied

  “Do you know how many people are watching us right now?” Victor’s hot breath whispered into Miranda’s ear.

  No, she did not know. Some part of her wanted to know. It was the part of her that was smashed against the hotel window, enjoying the fucking of a lifetime. The rest of Miranda wasn’t sure how she got into this spot, naked in a hotel room with a complete stranger.

  Hours before she had stepped out of a salon feeling beautiful for the first time in years. Her recent boyfriend--now ex-- had never approved of her spending money on vanity. That meant no manicures, pedicures, make up and nail polish binges. Definitely no two-hundred-dollar haircuts and colors.

  Two years with him meant her hair had grown long, until it was a wild and tangled mess. The day he broke up with her she had sat and pulled apart her split ends while listening to him, watching as the tiny hair would split and tear until snap! One half would break free.

  Now she was a free half, loose in the world. When her ex had left her, he had gently and kindly told her he needed more maturity in his life. His idea of maturity was frugality and blandness. Miranda wanted to splurge. As soon as he’d walked out of her front door, she called her old hair stylist and had made an appointment.

  She had him chop it all off into a bob and dye it a fierce black. It was a bold cut and color for Miranda. Neither word was a word her friends would have used to describe her. She was a paralegal, paid her bills on time, and never drank. Her idea of a big night had been board games until midnight.

  But not tonight. No, she had decided her new hair needed attention. She had bought a dress to match. Navy blue and seriously low cut in the front. When she had bought it she could tell the sales lady wanted to hand her something a little more modest. Miranda was a little on the plus size, her large breasts showing prominently in the deep vee of the dress. Miranda hadn’t even taken the dress off. She just tore off the tags and handed them to the surprised cashier.

  After treating herself, Miranda had taken a cab into the city. She enjoyed the feel of the cab’s leather seats on the backs of her bare thighs--her dress was more than a little on the short side. She had flushed when she noticed her driver’s eyes continually drawn to the image of her cleavage in his rear view mirror. She knew she should have felt embarrassed and ashamed and tried to cover herself. Instead, in a moment of pure wildness, she had uncrossed her legs and leaned back, showing him her lacy underwear. He didn’t charge her for the ride.

  For her night of freedom on the town, Miranda had chosen a v
ery posh and exclusive bar. She almost never drank and felt a little lost looking at the menu. Embarrassed, she ordered water with a lime in the hopes it would look like a mixed drink. Standing at the bar awkwardly and sipping the tap water, Miranda had, for the first time that night, begun to wonder if perhaps she was making a huge mistake.

  That was when he had showed up. He wasn’t much taller than her, maybe five eleven. But his face was rugged and masculine. The confidence he threw off as he approached the bar had made Miranda’s belly feel tight and her panties damp. His dark curly hair was immaculate and his suit expensive.

  He had barely approached the bar before the bar tender had been jumping for the chance to serve him. Miranda would never forget what had happened next: He had looked at her and said to the bartender, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  The bar tender had snickered as Miranda had turned a deep red, feeling the blush creep down her chest and cleavage.

  The bartender had handed him the drink and he had sauntered over to Miranda. His strong hands held the glass out, clinking it against hers. Miranda had been unable to move, just watching this incredibly sexy man come onto her.

  “Cheers, darling.” He drank deeply. When he had drained his glass he had looked at Miranda in sincere amusement. She’d noticed then that his twinkling eyes were brown and he had dimples when he smiled.

  “Water?”

  Stunned that this incredibly handsome man was still paying attention to her, Miranda had looked at her glass, avoiding eye contact as she had tried to answer.

  “I’m not very...experienced. I thought I wanted to try something new but--”she had dared to look him in the eyes then, “--I didn’t know what I wanted.”

  He joked that he would have bought her a drink, but that water didn’t rack up much of a tab. He had introduced himself as Victor. When she had offered her hand to shake, he had raised it to his lips and kissed it, his breath hot on her skin, his thumb tracing circles on the top of her hand. Liquid heat had gushed from her then, and she had to force herself not to moan.