“Oh, God….” the man with the short brown hair moans, stuffed so full of cock he might burst, “fuck yeah, fuck me!” His plea is answered by another man shoving his erection in his mouth, silencing him beyond his enthusiastic grunts and moans. Each of his hands has a hold on another dick to stroke, not to mention the fifth one starting to DP his ass.
Mikhael blinks and shakes his head, looking at bright blue eyes and a customer-friendly smile, to go along with the short brown hair of the man he’s watched a hundred times on his laptop, one hand on the trackpad and the other on his cock. He swallows.
“What can I get you, sir?” The man—“Scout”, from his name tag, and “Dave Morehead”, from his filmography—asks, and Mikhael swallows. Opens his mouth. Swallows again.
“Coffee,” he says meekly, and when the barista raises an eyebrow, he adds, “with extra cream,” and winces, remembering the man before him covered with a different kind of cream. Fuck fuck fuck, he thinks, but that just makes it worse. He pays hurriedly, telling Scout to keep the change, and moves over to the counter to wait for his drink.
Cute, Scout thinks, watching the huge, handsome man fidget nervously, and though he’s gotten that reaction from men before, there’s something about this one; maybe just because he looks so strong but goes weak at the thought of seeing a man he wanks to in person, or because his belly looks so soft and round, unlike the men he works with at his other job, but he decides to trip up the man a little more.
Mikhael takes his coffee from the woman who made it with a gracious smile and hurries out of the shop, not noticing until he’s out in the cold again and takes his first sip that, scrawled on the side, in black sharpie, is “Text Me, Handsome”, with a phone number and copious hearts. Mikhael thinks he might die right there on the sidewalk.
annaxmalina
blakekathryn
stormborns
origamiaround
jbbartram-illu
2087
