Secrets if the World's Best Coffee by Erin O'Riordan
The world’s best coffee is Kupi Lawak, made from beans harvested from the dung of the Indonesian civet, right? Wrong. The world’s true greatest coffee is in Volterra, Italy.
The market in Volterra’s heart boasts a coffee bar. Wedged into the corner of a block of sun-bleached, stone-walled shops, Roberto’s has two exterior walls of glass. The women insist. From the moment Roberto opens to the time he closes, women line press their noses against the glass to watch him work.
Roberto’s beauty is legendary. He’s a tall twentysomething with gently curling hair the color of espresso. His deep-set, green eyes remind one of the sea, boundless and mysterious. The sharp angles of his cheeks and chin make him look like a fashion model, especially with a little dark stubble. There was a graceful air about the way he stands, the way his large hands stir and pour, the way he wears his barista’s white button-down shirt and black slacks.
The coffee he makes in public has a delightful aroma and tastes even better. It’s robust and full-bodied, with a fruity aftertaste and only the barest hint of bitterness. It’s not, however, his best coffee. Roberto never makes his best coffee in public.
There are few customers who request his very best, due to its off-putting cost. The price makes civet coffee seems like Starbucks. The few who are willing to pay say Roberto’s private reserve is black liquid heaven. It’s thick, almost like Turkish coffee, with a very fruity body, perfectly balanced against the slight bitterness, and a chocolate-like aftertaste. Neither milk nor sugar ever touch his ambrosial brew, so perfect in its natural state. None of his customers know its secret.
When a well-heeled customer orders Roberto’s best, Roberto steps out of the limelight of his storefront, leaving barista duties to employees. He steps into his office, untucks his shirt, unbuckles his belt, and lowers his zipper. With a sure, steady hand, he takes out his cock and strokes it to hardness. His touches are feather-light; the tool he requires is his imagination. Most days he’s seen a young lady, her eager face pressed against the glass, who inspires him. Perhaps the golden tops of her breasts peep from her summer dress. Perhaps it’s her shapely legs, or the curve of her ass as she turns and walks away with a regular espresso.
In his mind’s eye, he always sees them naked. They stand before him, perky tits at attention, red lips puckered in anticipation of a kiss. He pictures himself stroking their silky skin, his fingers dipping into the honey between their legs. His fingers first, then the head of his cock. They turn around, bending over the bar, and he fucks them from behind, tenderly running his fingers through their hair.
The moment he feels his climax nearing, Roberto takes the demitasse cup in one hand. He finishes himself off with the other and comes, perfectly, into the cup. The world’s finest coffee is then served.
Midsummer Night (eXcessica Publishing)
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