Mack Zack
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August Story - Coffee Time (Chapter 1)
🕑 Added 2022-09-15 17:00:03 +0000 UTCBefore I knew who she was, Barbara Rodriguez was a regular at my local Starbucks. It’s funny because I’m not even a coffee drinker. I go there primarily to write my stories, especially my fetish stories, since I feel awkward being at home with my little brother wondering what I’m doing at my computer all day long.
I’m the kind of writer who needs visual stimulation while they write. I can’t be cooped up in my bedroom for long. I need to see and hear people as I conjure up the next scene in my tale. Certain people give me inspiration. Barbara Rodriguez was one such person. She became more than just a subject of people-watching; she became my muse.
From the first moment I saw her, I was smitten. I had a good feeling about that day before I saw her. It was a cloudy autumn day with rain on the weather report. Rain is always good for a writer like me. Such an aesthetically pleasing sound. I was facing the main street of our quaint little town zoning out, when in comes a striking curtain of raven black hair. She was slightly tan, possibly Hispanic, with dark eyeliner and small lips. She wore a long purple raincoat and black leather boots, ready for a storm. Fidgeting with her messenger bag, she scanned the tables, locked eyes with me for a brief moment, and settled on a bar table across from me.
She removed her raincoat and I tried hard not to stare. She was dressed to the nines in a smooth black dress with a large belt buckle. The stockings were what killed me. I bit my finger and tried not to make any weird faces.
She was medium height. I hate to say how cliché this is but she was plump in all the right places. She had some belly action going on. A few minutes after she settled, she got in line to get a drink and adjusted her belt a couple times. When she looked around idly and faced me, I quickly turned away.
I have to write about this girl, I thought.
I typed away my lustful, impromptu longings about her, hoping to piece it together into a coherent story for my decadent online audience. I liked to imagine her farts would be deep and bassy. Something told me though that maybe that sort of thing grossed her out. Nobody dressed that nice would ever be okay with bodily functions. Would they?
She got herself a venti of some coffee thing (again, not a coffee drinker), sat down and also typed at her laptop. She also placed numerous books on the table. Then she put on some cat-themed earphones and tuned out to the world as she worked on something.
Her ass took up all the space on her chair and then some. I stole glances every now and then. I became paranoid that I was watching her, so I stopped. But whenever she got up to do something, like go to the bathroom or get another drink, my eyes were lured to her like a magnet.
She eventually left, and I believed that I would never see her again. I had captured her descriptions in my writing, and she would forever be a part of that. It was like I had taken a picture of her but in a more intimate way. And without her knowing. Was that wrong? I didn’t know. I held onto that piece of writing in my folders in my laptop, thinking I’d never go back to it ever again.
But I was wrong.
She would be part of my new norm every other day. I actually came in more frequently to write in hopes of running into her again. On the days that she didn’t come, I stayed for less than a couple hours. I guess she ended up being not just my muse but a motivation to go out and write. She continued to dress nicely all the time, but I noticed that she typically wore sundresses and skirts and dress with stockings.
Then one day she wore blue jeans, and oh my God I lost it. My mind was screaming. My dick was raging and my blood was pumping.
She looked so thick in those jeans. The button looked tight around her waist, not quite needing to pop open but also not relaxed. The white long-sleeved shirt she wore also made her look fabulous. But when she turned around to look for a table, I was floored by her ass. She had a wide-load there. I had to actually clasp my mouth to prevent a strange sound from emitting. That booty popped out. It fucking bobbed up and down as she walked around. Pure dummy thiccness.
It was very busy that day. She found a table right next to me with no chairs. She grimaced at the table, defeated, bit her lip, and looked around.
I froze when she walked up to me and pointed at the unoccupied seat at my table.
“Can I take this chair?”
I stared blankly at her.
Time stopped for what felt like an agonizing hour. I said something, but it didn’t make sense. My voice had cracked.
“Sorry?” she said.
“N-no. Nobody is sitting there. It’s empty. Yeah. You can take it. It’s all yours. Yeah.”
She looked at me strangely for a moment, and then smiled as she took it.
“Thank you.”
Her voice was not what I expected. It was softer and more…awkward-sounding? Like she was also nervous to speak up.
That was the first time I ever spoke to her. Listen to me. Oh God. I sound like a stalker. I remember the first time I saw her, the first word I said to her, the first thing I remember her dressed up in.
That day I knew I had to make a move. I had to say something. What if I never saw her again? She could only be a visitor. One day she might disappear forever. I thought about what to say. There had to be something there to make a conversation. The books! She always had a ton of books on her desk. I looked sideways to read the titles. I didn’t recognize any of them. But I did have the power of Google at my fingertips.
She had an eclectic range of books by her side. They ranged from fictional to non-fictional, from stuff about witches and witchcraft to LGBTQ to geopolitics and finally to filmmaking. Really heavy-handed stuff that was beyond my scope. I couldn’t figure out how they connected. Maybe she was writing a paper, or a thesis? It certainly looked that way with how she kept opening a book, typing something up, closing that book and opening another one, and then typing again.
I started to perspire thinking of what to say. I kept stealing glances at her seat – her massive thighs taking up the entirety of it. She had to adjust herself every so often. I was sure that it was uncomfortable for a woman with an ass like that to be sitting on such a small chair.
Barbara noticed that I was staring. She lifted up one side of her headphones and asked, “Did you say something?”
I blanked out. She waited for a response…and I muttered nonsense until I finally said, “That’s a wide range of books there.”
She blanked out too, processing what I said. Then she laughed and said, “Oh yes! I’m writing a script.”
“A script?”
“Yeah. For a movie.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
She nodded, pleased with herself. “I’m hoping to meet the deadline to send it in to this contest. If I win…” she rolled her eyes “big IF…but if I win then they give me money to make it!”
I was completely floored. This was beyond anything I expected, then again what could one expect? Thousands of people came here in and out working on things, and you never knew what they did. For all I knew, a spy could be on his laptop that very moment working on state secrets.
“That’s…that’s so cool. What is your movie about?” It took off from there. She talked about how she was inspired by the movie Hereditary. She was an avid horror movie fan who liked reading about witchcraft. Not that she seriously considered it real but at the same time she learned that such things were suppressed by the Church because women were mistaken to be devil worshippers when in reality they just knew their shit. The way she talked about all of this was unlike the first words she uttered to me. She spoke confidently and with flow.
I quickly fell in love. I could listen to her talk about anything for hours on end. Barbara was the kind of voice you heard on NPR talking about interesting shit you never knew even existed. This girl knew so much. Maybe I’m sapiosexual? I felt like an idiot giving the usual “Oh wow” and “That’s so cool” response because I didn’t know what I could add. How could I add anything? She graduated from a college that was fucking overseas in the U.K. Like a special international school. There was a point when she giggled and asked if I was boring her. I shook my head vigorously, denying this.
She sipped her coffee. “Sorry. I just spew word vomit. I should have been writing. But it’s good to take a break every now and then. What do you do?”
Failed writer. A thousand rejection letters. A shitty podcast that nobody listens to. Desk job for a local newspaper. I tried to think the best way to explain all of this to her without sounding like a loser.
I told her that last bit only. And that I liked to write on my spare time.
“Oh. So you’re a writer too? What do you—uurrrp—oh gosh!”
I blinked twice. She had let out a low rumble of a burp while talking. Her face had contorted as it rolled up and erupted from inside her. She looked as though she tried to hold it back, or at least let it out quietly, but she failed. She tapped her mouth with a napkin and said, “Excuse me. Sorry. I thought they put no real milk in this. Haha. I’ll be right back!”
She hopped off her stool and disappeared around the corner to where the bathrooms were.
I stared in space in silence.
Well, that just happened.
Nothing like hearing your crush burp the first time you get to talk to her.
I drummed my fingers on the table. The people around me went about their business chatting, drinking, working on their laptops. Nobody could feel the excitement and nervousness that I felt. I almost envied them.
Almost five minutes passed by, and I decided to get up and go the bathroom. The two bathrooms were situated around the corner of the café in an alcove. I tested one of them and it was vacant. I assumed Barbara was in the second one. I knocked on the door and she grunted, “Occupied! Sorry!”
I waited there, listening.
I shouldn’t be doing this, I thought.
I heard someone walking over. I panicked and entered the second bathroom. It had seen better days and the fan wasn’t working well. It’s funny, even when I don’t need to pee the sudden urge to pee always hits me when I enter a bathroom. So I peed and washed my hands and then heard something on the other side of the wall, where Barbara was.
I gulped and pressed my ear against the wall.
Nothing.
And then---
“HRRRRNG!”
PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP!
Bathroom farts echoed all the time. Barbara had let out a massive, deep ripper. I could feel her satisfaction by her grunt and sigh at the end. She even added a “Whew” and then she flushed the toilet.
I had to hurry back to my seat.
Somehow, we ended up leaving our respective bathrooms at the same time. I stepped out and so did she and we awkwardly uttered a little “Oh” at the same time, and then did that side-stepping dance to see who went first into the hallway. After an awkward giggle, she went first.
Holy shit that was awkward, I thought. This is mad awkward. I would totally understand if she didn’t want to talk to me anymore.
That fart could have been heard by anyone within five feet of that bathroom. She must have known that I heard it.
But once we sat back down, Barbara picked up where we last left our conversation as if nothing awkward had happened. Maybe she didn’t think much of it or didn’t even think anyone heard her.
“What do you write?” she asked. “Besides newspaper stuff.”
I stared at the Word document open on my laptop to a page detailing how Aerith from Final Fantasy VII was ripping ass in Cloud’s face.
“Uh. I dabble in fanfiction,” I said.
“Interesting.”
“Not really. A lot of people consider it trash. It’s okay if you think it’s trash and not real fiction.”
“People really say that about fanfiction?”
“Oh yeah. Loads.”
“Well writing is writing.”
“There’s like a whole community behind it. Not all of it is…uh…good.”
“Every community has its bad side. That’s inevitable.” She thought for a moment. “I can go on about how most communities are led by boys and how they treat it like a boys club but maybe now’s not the right time.”
I smiled. There really wasn’t any reason to other than a dumb reaction to wanting to hear her talk again. But alas, she went back to her work and didn’t continue the conversation. It must have been maybe another hour before she stretched, closed her laptop, and packed up her stuff.
“Well. It was nice meeting you.”
I thought that would be it. Nice meeting you. Bye. Never see you again. Just another stranger.
Once she had her messenger bag packed and she donned her coat for the chilly autumn air, she turned around and approached me with her hand out. She stuck it out awkwardly like an extra jutting appendage that she didn’t know what to do with.
“I’m Barbara,” she said.
My heart pounded. Before the seconds dragged on, I shook her hand and said my name.
“Cool beans,” she said nodding. “Maybe I’ll see you around later.”
And with that she turned around to leave. I gazed down at her delicious rump in those blue jeans, cheeks moving up and down as she walked. Her wispy black hair swept up as the wind hit her, and then she disappeared out of sight past the window.
