Lyon coffee festival in france
The coffee festival in Lyon brings together roasters, baristas, and coffee enthusiasts from across France. Visitors immerse themselves in tastings, workshops, and competitions, discovering the artistry behind coffee-making. The aroma of freshly brewed espresso fills the air, mingling with the scent of buttery French pastries. Discussions revolve around sustainability, brewing techniques, and the future of specialty coffee.
I was invited to this event by Alain, a 23-year-old coffee merchant’s son from France. We met in my Philosophy of Communication class, where he led a seminar on the ethics of persuasion in advertising. When he answered my blanket email about opportunities for festival study during my sabbatical, he invited me to Lyon, where, he said, I could explore the art and culture of specialty coffee at the Lyon Coffee Festival, sampling rare brews and discussing coffee as a storytelling medium.
I met Alain early in the morning, the crisp French air carrying the faint scent of fresh pastries and strong coffee as we made our way to a charming café nearby. Alain, with his dark hair and sharp eyes, greeted me with his usual warmth and a quick, "Ça va?" He was dressed casually in a simple t-shirt and jeans, but his elegance, even in casual wear, always seemed to stand out. We settled into a cozy corner of the café, where a bistro table was already set with a basket of baguette slices and croissants, a dish of apricot jam, a pat of butter, a small coffee pot, a carafe of orange juice, a plate of Comté cheese, and a bowl of yogurt with honey.
Alain told me that at breakfast I should eat like a king ("Petit-déjeuner comme un roi," he said) and loaded my plate with slices of baguette, a croissant, a wedge of Comté cheese, a spoonful of apricot jam, and a generous serving of yogurt with honey. He poured me a cup from the small coffee pot and added a glass of orange juice, and set the tray before me.
“Petit-déjeuner comme un roi," he said in his beautiful French. “At breakfast eat like you were a king.”
“I see,” I said. “I hope you will help, this is too much. Dig in!”
“Don’t worry about me,” Alain said dreamily. “We are in no hurry. I’ll get me something.”
No one around us seemed to be in a hurry, I noticed. A young woman across from us was carefully unwrapping a pastry, savoring each bite slowly, while an older man at the next table spoke loudly on his phone, waving his arm in an animated conversation with someone. There was a child two tables away from us, intently dipping a piece of bread into a bowl of milk, while a young couple sitting nearby exchanged smiles and quiet words, clearly sharing an early morning moment before the busyness of the day.
As I was finishing the food, Alain quickly grabbed a croissant with a few gulps of orange juice and was on his feet.
“We’ll take a boat to the Festival,” he said.
We left the café and walked a few blocks toward the river. The narrow streets of Lyon were already bustling with morning activity—shopkeepers were unlocking their doors, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a nearby boulangerie. We passed cafés with people already crowding the outdoor tables, enjoying their own petit-déjeuners, and I couldn’t help but notice the calm, almost timeless pace of the city.
We reached the pier, where our riverboat awaited. There were not so many passengers that day, so we chose to sit outside at a large round table. The engine came to life, the French flag at the bow fluttered in the wind, and we sailed off. Soon we floated slowly past the pastel façades of the Vieux Lyon. Their Renaissance windows and wrought-iron balconies leaned slightly over the narrow streets below. The river reflected the warm colors of the old town. Hidden traboules—passageways once used by silk merchants— could be seen snaking between the buildings.
Then we passed the graceful arches of the Passerelle du Palais de Justice. The slender footbridge stretched over the water, leading to the imposing courthouse. Its classical columns stood in perfect symmetry. Beyond it, the Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière crowned the hill. Its white towers rose above the city like silhouettes of watchful guardians. A little farther, the glass curves of the Musée des Confluences stood at the meeting point of the Rhône and Saône. The new building created a stark contrast to the stone of the old city.
Finally, we passed the Île Barbe, a quiet green island in the river. The remains of a medieval abbey stood there. Its weathered stone walls rose among old trees. Ivy covered the arched windows, and what was left of the bell tower reached toward the sky. The place looked untouched by time, silent and seemingly living an absolutely separate life from the city.
A few bends later, we moored at a small pier near the Coffee Fest grounds. The air here smelled of fresh coffee and roasted nuts. Stalls lined the waterfront, and striped awnings cast shadows over tables. Baristas worked behind heavy machines, pulling shots and steaming milk. People stood around tasting stations, talking and laughing between sips. Alain stepped onto the dock first and looked back, as if making sure I was there before stepping into the middle of it all.
We headed to the heart of the coffee festival, where we were invited to a blind coffee-tasting experience, an activity I was both curious and excited about. The room was set up with long tables covered in white cloths, each place marked with a small card displaying a number. Alain led me to a seat, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he explained the rules. The idea was to taste a selection of carefully brewed coffees without knowing which beans were used, allowing us to focus solely on the flavors. We were asked to note the aromas, acidity, and aftertaste of each cup.
The first coffee had a fruity, bright flavor, with a sharp acidity that made my mouth tingle. The second was smoother, with a nutty taste and a slight sweetness. The third coffee had a deep, earthy flavor with hints of cocoa, while the fourth was more floral, with a delicate, tea-like quality. The fifth had a strong, smoky taste with a bold finish.
Around the table, the other tasters shared their thoughts. One woman noted the sharpness of the first coffee but found the second one a bit too mellow. A man beside me struggled with the earthy coffee, saying it tasted too heavy. Another person praised the floral notes in the fourth, while the fifth coffee made a younger man wrinkle his nose, unable to appreciate the smokiness.
When the tasting ended, the master of the event, an old man who looked like an artist in retirement with a fancy beret and a scarf around his neck, declared the winner. He gestured to the man sitting across from me, who had confidently identified every coffee’s unique notes. Surprisingly, Alain took second place, having missed just one point. For prizes, the winner received a handmade ceramic mug and a bag of rare coffee beans, while Alain got a beautifully crafted coffee spoon and a voucher for a coffee brewing workshop.
After the tasting session, we went on to what Alain called an "eco seminar." At the seminar, the host explained the process of creating artificial leather from used coffee grounds. The room was lively with activity as participants gathered around large workstations. We mixed coffee grounds with natural binders to form a strong, flexible material. The host showed us how to knead the mixture, working the grounds into a soft, smooth substance. He explained that this process not only recycled coffee waste but also supported sustainable practices.
Around us, a group of young people made wallets and small bags, their faces focused as they proudly showed off their work. A couple of women laughed as they compared the designs of their small pouches, while a man at the far end carefully stitched the edges of a piece of leather he was turning into a notebook cover.
I left with a small, coffee-scented wallet—a simple money folder with uneven corners and an attempt at a design that resembled a small book. The button was sewn slightly to the side, but despite the imperfect stitching, the folder kept its shape for a year and served me well.
… Later in the evening, Alain invited me to his family villa for a relaxed supper. His parents, who were sophisticated and polished, nevertheless welcomed me with warm smiles and polite conversation. I was invited to the living room, which was tastefully decorated, with dark wooden furniture and a large fireplace at the center, where a fire crackled softly. We were seated at a large mahogany table with a well-starched tablecloth on it, and Alain and his dad lit up flavorful smokes.
Alain’s father, dressed in a well-tailored suit, asked me numerous questions about my work and research, and my impression of his son, and I was happy to tell him that Alain had aced my course and that we have since developed what can be called a friendship. Then this soft spoken man finally smiled and tapped the arm of his son in approval.
His mother, elegant in a silk blouse, offered us a platter of cheeses—creamy brie, sharp comté, and tangy chèvre—along with warm slices of baguette and a small bowl of olives. She also gave us pâté to spread on the bread and a few delicate slices of jambon de Paris for variety. She also poured us each a glass of chilled wine, and for dessert, served fresh figs, sweet just enough to balance the richness of the cheeses.
After the meal, and another smoke for the three of us on the second floor balcony overlooking a sprawling garden, Alain led me upstairs to the attic, a spacious, cozy room with low ceilings and an atmosphere of quiet comfort. Through the skylights, I could see the stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky. Alain returned shortly after with a bottle of the strongest coffee liqueur I had ever tasted. He poured us both a glass, and the rich, dark liquid felt warm and inviting. Its deep, roasted flavor lingered on my tongue.
The villa was now peaceful and quiet, and we spent the rest of the evening talking about the festival, our days back in school, and everything in between. The strong coffee liqueur, served in delicate crystal glasses, was the perfect nightcap, and we toasted to good memories and new adventures.
My Takeaways
The French are gallant, gentle people with a huge heart. They care about their country and treasure their traditions. They work hard to keep the country safe and clean, and their elegance and manners are world-renowned. I wasn’t at all tired after the eventful day because it was so slow and measured, and I brought back with me my endless affection for France, and a surprisingly durable eco-friendly wallet, where for a while I kept a picture of Alain I took that night.
An evening with Alain
Ah, Transformation!
Ah, transformation! At first you see a tender, polite, shy and delicate man who seems like he would be an angel in bed, and it makes you wonder if he can at all be a top for your hungry bottom. And then a miracle happens: this guy has a brutal side and a huge dick, and his little body turns powerful and controlling!
Remember Alain, a coffee shop owner’s son who took me around the Coffee Festival and then hosted me on the attic of his luxurious villa? He brought me up to the third floor and showed me my room, and I was getting ready to just jerk off and go to bed, when he staggered back up the stairs.
At 3 a.m. I found myself being fucked by Alain, who was growling, cussing and spitting on my back from the effort with which he stuck his unexpectedly huge dick into my burning ass…
…The soft glow of a polished brass lamp bathed Alain’s pale face as he poured another shot of coffee liqueur into a sleek glass. The third-floor attic of his villa was a clean, posh, and cozy retreat around us—with polished wooden beams, a spotless hardwood floor, a thick wool rug, and a small, cushioned armchair tucked beneath the slanted ceiling across from a large and soft square bed. “Un petit goût de France,” he said with a coy smile, his long hair spilling over his shoulders like on a Renaissance painting, his voice lilting in that effeminate way that had always made me underestimate him as I soon found.
We’d been sipping the liqueur in complete darkness for an hour, the bitter-sweet burn loosening my tongue and my inhibitions, and when a dribble of the dark liquid streaked down his chin, I reached out—half laughing, half daring—and wiped it with my thumb, smearing it across his pale skin.
He giggled, and it was a strangely high-pitched sound, like a call of a night bird. Then he mirrored me, brushing a streak from my cheek, his slender fingers lingering longer than necessary. Then—quite fast—his touch turned to a caress, and then—sudden and reckless—he leaned in, licking the sticky residue from my jaw. His tongue felt hot and wet on my cheek. I froze, startled by the shift, but then his lips found mine, insistent and sloppy, tasting of coffee and something feral beneath his tender façade. Then he pulled me into a kiss that felt less like seduction and more like a claim.
In a minute, we were in bed. Alain’s little body surprised me with its brutal strength. I could feel him through his tight jeans, a hard ridge pressing against my thigh, and my own cock twitched in response, straining against the fabric of my slacks. His hands roamed, delicate fingers dug into my shoulders with unexpected force, and I arched up, grinding against him. This contact of our two yet “clothed” dicks made my head spin.
He laughed again, but it was lower now, a throaty sound that didn’t match the soft sweep of his hair brushing my face. Our hips rocked together, denim and cotton being a maddening barrier, and I felt the entire length of him—impossibly firm, too huge for his slim frame, wildly insistent—rubbing against me.
“Tu aimes ça, professeur?” he purred, his accent thick, and I groaned, too drunk on liqueur and lust to care that this was my student, his attic, my ruin.
Clothes came off in a frenzy—my trembling hands yanked at his shirt, his nimble ones tore at my belt, buttons popping like gunfire. When his jeans finally slid down, I stopped, unable to breathe at the sight of his cock: a heavy, thick log jutting from his pale, hairless frame, the contrast stark against the wild, dark bush of pubic hair at its base. The head was broad, flushed a deep pink, glistening slightly, the foreskin pulled back just enough to reveal a ridge that promised both pleasure and pain; his balls hung low, heavy and asymmetrical, the ballsack dotted with tiny red pimples.
I stared, mesmerized by the sheer size, the way it curved slightly to the right, a big blue vein pulsing along the shaft. It looked grotesque and beautiful, a weapon on this waifish boy with his faggy manners and tender smile, and I felt a jolt of fear—or was it awe?—as he stared down at me, fully aware of the power he wielded. “C’est pour toi,” he said, voice dropping an octave, and I swallowed hard, already imagining it splitting me open.
I couldn’t resist tasting him first, wrapping my lips around that monstrous head, the salt and musk overwhelming me as I struggled to take more. He groaned, and now it was a deep, masculine sound, and tangled his fingers in my hair, but it lasted only a moment before he pulled me off, flipping me onto my stomach with a strength that shocked me.
“Non, comme ça,” he growled, and then he was on me, his huge cock pressing against my ass, trying to force its way in—dry at first, burning, tearing a yelp from my throat imploring him for mercy.
He relented and added some cream that he grabbed from the night table, and then he came in again, in one smooth long motion, his hands giving me fierce slaps on my back.
… He fucked me hard, relentlessly, and I moaned and growled like a wounded bear. His hips slammed against me, and a brutal rhythm shook my whole body. He snarled something dirty and horny in French, and his voice sounded like a gravelly roar, quite different from the simpering tone I knew. His hands gripped my hips, and his nails dug in as he pulled me back onto him. The stretch hurt as the thickness of this French monster split me open. Then it shifted, and painful pleasure rolled over me in thick waves when his cockhead hit something deep inside me.
In this painful delight, my vision blurred. He leaned over me. His chest, slick with sweat, pressed against my back. Fucking me now, he was mumbling various French curses, sounding like a soldier, not a poet and romantic I had known. At first his tempo started slow and he moved with long, deep thrusts. Then the pace quickened. Short, sharp jolts replaced the steady slap-slap-slap of the machine-like beginning. Not it was “pu-u-u-ushhh… pu-u-u-ush… Slap! Slap! Slap!” and different variations thereof, the number of slow pushes and hard thrusts varying indefinitely. I could hear him breathe in time with his thrusts, and tiny drops of saliva trickled onto my back – or was it sweat?
The pleasant pain then changed into searing pleasure. That massive cockhead pounded my prostate, hard and unforgiving, as he panted heavily on top of me, moaning slightly with every of his thrusts, with plaintive short wails in between like he was about to cry.
The sensation of the approaching orgasm kicked off right at the top of the cockhead. Initially, it itched just a bit. That itch then grew sharper and prickly with each of Alan’s thrusts. After a short while, it gradually spread down the shaft of my dick. The buildup to the short wave of pleasure was instantaneous: I had just enough time to put my hand down and stop the drops of cum from spoiling the expensive sheets.
“Alain—fuck—” My voice broke. He kept going and drove harder. His growls grew louder, and at the edge of his orgasm he screamed at the top of his voice. Then he pulled out, and it felt like a cork leaving the bottle. Soon there came another scream, and then there was a hot, wet splash. Three thick and invisible streaks of his cum landed on my back.
I collapsed, trembling, his weight still half on me, his breath ragged in my ear. The boy I’d thought soft and fragile was gone; this was a man, rough and commanding, his curses—“Bordel, t’es serré”—still echoing in that deep, guttural tone as he smeared his cum into my skin with a possessive hand. I was wrecked, undone, and yet somehow sated in a way I hadn’t expected.
Then, all of a sudden there was a knock on the door:
“Messieurs, essayez de faire moins de bruit, respectez cette maison!” (Gentlemen, please mind your manners, respect this house!")
“Va-t'en, toi!” (Go to hell, you!) Alain grumbled in response.
We pulled a soft cotton sheet over us and settled, our naked bodies touching each other. Alain pressed against me, his body lax again now, and I felt the limp barrel of his cock—still hairy, still improbably large even soft—nestling against my ass, as a quiet reminder of what had happened between us. I turned my head slightly, catching the faint glint of his long hair spread across the pillow, and wondered how I’d misjudged him so completely.
“What shall we tell your dad in the morning?” I whispered.
“Not like they don’t do the same,” he responded. “I just pretend I am deaf.”
Exhaustion took me fast, and as I dozed off, I felt his arm drape over me—not tender, but heavy, proprietary. The last thing I heard was his breathing, steady and deep, a masculine sound from that deceptively delicate frame, and I slipped into sleep, having been owned in a way I hadn’t anticipated by a student named Alain from France…
In the morning his father seemed polite but distant, and Alain's mother served us a delicious breakfast of croissants, jam and coffee. Alain drove me back to my hotel, nice, polite, cheerful and light, talking about a joint conference in January, his plans for graduate school... and I couldn't take my eyes off his crotch--now realizing how big and visible it was even limp, and then perhaps even was it?
My Takeaways
Never try to guess what a soft and delicate man will be like in bed. Alain taught me that a twinky slim boy can be a relentless master in bed, who will make you scream in agony, and ask for mercy as he pounds you with his huge cock.
Alain and I sometimes have online sex. It is enough for him to see me naked to get hard and start cursing like a sailor and jerking his cock violently, his hair flying all over the place. It takes him just a minute to cum, which I, too, appreciate. And then we talk about philosophy, sitting there naked, and he is again the sweet smiling gentle person he really isn’t deep inside.
