Coffee Shop Desire

Haunted by guilt and burning with need, Bryn spirals into obsession, surrendering to memory, fantasy, and the ache of Bruno’s absence. When fate throws them together at the gym, lust ignites into furious passion. In the steam room, Bruno doesn’t just take him - he claims him, body and soul - leaving Bryn trembling, filled, and forever changed.

  • Score 9.8 (43 votes)
  • 1351 Readers
  • 4712 Words
  • 20 Min Read

I couldn’t stop replaying it. Marianne’s sweet smile. Bruno’s stillness. That unbearable moment hanging in the air between them - and me - caught right in the middle, lying to both. Or at the very least, to her. It lingered long after we left the coffee shop. Still does. Her little joke, that boy band quip, should’ve made me laugh. It usually would’ve. But all I could hear was the way she’d tilted her head, smiled up at him, and asked, ‘So what else do you two have in common?’

I’d nearly choked on my damn Americano.

She didn’t know, of course. Couldn’t know. But I saw the moment her eyes flicked from me to him and back again. Something tightened in me - panic, maybe. Or guilt bubbling too close to the surface. Bruno had been polite, warm even, but his posture was all wrong. Too still. Like he wanted to bolt.

Same as me.

Now, hours later, I stood in the kitchen, rocking my daughter gently with one foot as I stirred formula into her bottle. The soft gurgling sound of the kettle boiling was the only thing that tethered me to the moment. Everything else felt hazy. Too loud, yet muffled. Bruno’s name echoed in my head. His body. His mouth. The heat of him driving into me under the waterfall.

God.

The baby sighed in her sleep. Her cheek smushed against the muslin cloth on her shoulder. I adjusted her gently, my heart aching for the simplicity of her needs. So basic. So easy to fulfil. Warmth. Food. Comfort. Nothing like the storm I was riding inside.

Because I was hard again.

Not just from memory, though that played its part. But from the ache that had settled into my bones like a second skin. This craving - this... hunger - wasn’t going anywhere. I’d thought the sex would scratch the itch. It hadn’t. If anything, it had deepened it. I wanted more. Of him. More of his mouth, his cock, his filthy moans in my ear. More of the way he made me feel like someone entirely different. Someone alive.

I told myself I needed to clear my head. So I moved through the motions. Laid the baby down gently in her crib in the nursery. Watched her chest rise and fall. No reason to think she’d wake before her usual two-hour nap. Marianne wouldn’t be back until five.

I stepped out of the nursery, heart still thudding from the fragile weight of putting her down, and drifted down the hallway toward our bedroom.

I didn’t mean to go in there.

But something pulled me - something unspoken and electric. The familiar scent of fabric softener and Marianne’s shampoo hung in the air, grounding and domestic. But I didn’t stop at the dresser. I imagined – no, felt -  Bruno’s hand on the small of my back, guiding me, and I turned to her side of the bed.

The bottom drawer.

My hand hovered over the handle, that small internal whisper rising again - Don’t. But I was already pulling it open.

There it was.

The plug.

Small, black, sleek. The one Marianne liked sometimes when things got adventurous, when the night had gone soft and wine-stained. But it had never been mine. Not until now.

I stared at it for a long time. My breath shallow. My cock already twitching. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him. But I did. Because I could still feel him entering me, and I missed it. And the proof throbbed in my hand.

My fingers closed around it slowly, reverently. The cool silicone kissed my palm, sending a low shiver through my chest. I turned it over once… then again. The weight of it felt different today. Heavier. Dirtier. It felt like him.

I raised it to my lips and licked it – imagining it to be Bruno’s cock – and I was tentative, hungry, ashamed. My heart pounded. My cock thickened with every breath, already straining and bouncing slightly.

I stripped out of my clothes piece by piece. Shirt, shorts, briefs. Let them fall in a pool, discarded, as if I won’t need them on this path of surrender towards the fantasy of Bruno. I stood naked in our room, staring at my reflection in the mirror for a brief, breathless second. And then I rubbed the plug across one nipple. The other. My mouth fell open.

Then down – slowly - dragging it across my abs, teasing it over the head of my cock.

“Bruno,” I whispered, the name a sigh. A confession.

My cock jumped.

I clutched the lube and the plug in one hand and walked to the living room, body humming, cock bouncing with each step - flushed, leaking, aching to be filled.

The morning sun spilled in warm and golden through the windows. I dropped to my knees on the plush rug, heart thundering, cock already flushed and twitching.

What the fuck are you doing?

I didn’t answer myself.

Instead, I slicked my fingers and reached back. I was already loose. Still sensitive. The memory of him hadn’t left me since he pulled out that morning. I closed my eyes and pressed the tip of the plug against my hole.

My breath caught.

Not from pain. From recognition.

It wasn’t his cock, but it was close enough to remember the stretch. The fullness. The way he had held me still with one hand while he fucked the breath out of me with the other.

I pushed it in slowly, groaning as my muscles clenched around it.

The sensation was instant.

Sharp. Sweet. Wrong.

I leaned forward, forehead pressed to the carpet.
My hand found my cock. Slow strokes. Measured. Controlled.
In my mind, Bruno was already kneeling behind me...whispering in that low, dangerous voice,“You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered to the empty room. “God, yes.”

I rocked my hips, the plug shifting inside me with each movement. Every nerve ending alive, begging. My hand sped up.

I thought of his lips against my neck. His tongue. The dirty things he said when he was buried deep inside me. How he growled right before he came.

“I want more,” I moaned.

And then I was cumming.

Hard. Intense. My whole body shaking as I collapsed onto the rug, chest heaving, cum sticky against my palm. I didn’t move. Just lay there, ruined. A husband. A father. A man with a plug in his ass and a stranger in his heart.

I didn’t understand it.

I didn’t know what the fuck was happening to me.

But I knew this: I wanted to see him again. And not just at the café. Not just for stolen glances and whispered greetings. I wanted another taste. Another touch. Another fuck that made me forget who I was supposed to be.

I wanted Bruno.

And I didn’t know how to stop.

While I whispered Bruno’s name into the quiet of my living room, he was whispering mine into a silence of his own across town - one laced with restraint..

He didn’t come back to the coffee shop the next day. Or the day after that.

And I hated that I noticed it.

Back in my apartment, I told myself I didn’t care - but it gnawed at me. I’ve always known I needed to be strong for myself. That I have to be steadfast in who Bruno is.

And I told myself it was about discipline. About boundaries. About not being the kind of man who falls into the same fucking trap again and again.

But the truth was, although I ached for Bryn, I was torn. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him again - his hand resting gently on the curve of her back, the baby’s giggle like a warning bell, the perfect picture of domestic life. A life I would never be part of. A life I’d ruin just by breathing near it.

I'd been there before.

His name was Marcus. We’d met at a gallery opening - he was charming, devastatingly handsome, the kind of confident that made you want to undo him. For six months, we had this thing - beautiful, reckless, hungry. Until his wife found out. There was screaming. There were threats. I was the punchline to her heartbreak.

Marcus stayed with her.

And I walked away with silence ringing in my ears and the burn of his name seared into my chest.

I swore I’d never be that guy again. The dirty secret. The itch to be scratched because some straight, married guy somewhere had this fantasy of a cock up his ass. And yet, here I was. Indulging Bryn. Thinking about Bryn. Craving him. Letting his name live in the hollow of my throat.

That night, I dreamed.

I was in a corridor - long, narrow, dimly lit like the hallway of a motel. Doors lined either side, each one identical. I ran past them, barefoot, calling his name. My voice echoed back to me, empty. No answers. Just silence and the thud of my own feet.

I knocked. I begged.

“Bryn?”

No one came.

Until, finally, the last door at the end of the hall creaked open. Light spilled through the crack - warm, golden, like morning sun through stained glass.

I pushed it open.

The waterfall.

Only it wasn’t us.

It was Bryn alright, as glorious in his nudity as I remembered him, but he was fucking his wife beneath the same water where I once held him, filled him, made him whimper and beg. And this time it was Marianne bent over the same slick rock I bent Bryn over, her dark hair clinging to her back, Bryn gripping her hips, thrusting like it meant something. Like it meant everything.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t call out like I did before. I just stood there - frozen - watching his cock going in and out of her, until he came thick white ropes over her ass.

The baby cried somewhere off to the side - alone on a patch of wet grass, surrounded by my clothes I discarded on my way to fucking her father. Wailing. Unheard. Unseen. Bryn and Marianne didn’t notice. Didn’t care. They were too wrapped up in each other.

I jolted awake, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. There was no need for a dream dictionary to tell me what it meant. If this thing with Bryn continued, I would be the reason the baby cried. The reason Marianne's world cracked. The reason Bryn fell apart.

Sitting up, blinking in the dark, with the sheets twisted around my legs, I felt it, realised that my body was hot, tight with the confusion of arousal and shame. In my mind, I reaffirmed what the dream meant. I was the crack in the door. The disruption. The thing that didn’t belong.

And yet…

His scent still clung to me. Or maybe it was just memory.

I got up. Walked to the kitchen. Poured a glass of water with trembling hands. Even here, in my own apartment, Bryn haunted me. The glass in my hand recalled the memory of our fingers grazing that morning everything started shifting. I set the glass down, squirted a bit of the hand lotion next to the sink into my palm.

I looked at it - good God - even this reminded me of Bryn - of how his cum smelled - light, fresh, a little sweet. Even the texture was the same - thick, white, slightly sticky. I rubbed it into my hands imagining I was absorbing Bryn’s essence through my sinful skin.

I leaned against the sink. Swallowed hard.

And then I gave up.

I walked into the bathroom, closed the door behind me. Turned the water on hot – almost scalding. Steam billowed around me as I stripped, my cock already hard, twitching with the weight of everything I’d been pushing down.

I stepped into the shower, let the water slam against my back. Braced both hands against the tiled wall and dropped my head.

I closed my eyes and went back there.

To his voice, breathless and demanding - “Do it! Fill me.”

To his ass – clenching around my cock.

To that same cock, hard as steel, stretching him open with slow, devastating thrusts.

To the grip of his fingers on my ass, pulling me into him as if he didn’t want to let go of that one thing bringing him immense pleasure – my rock hard cock in his ass.

To the way his mouth had found mine after, soft and unsure, like an apology and a promise all at once.

I moaned. Quiet, desperate.

I reached down and took hold of myself, jerking slow at first, then harder. My other hand found the slick seam of my hole, teased it, just enough to make me gasp.

I imagined him kneeling behind me. Pushing into me. Filling me.

I could hear the rush of the waterfall. The echo of our moans against the rocks. The obscene slap of skin against skin.

“Bryn,” I whispered. “Fuck, Bryn…”

My hand moved faster. My legs trembled.

And then I came.

Hard.

Hot ropes of my own cum painted the tiles, washed away by the spray, but it didn’t wash away the ache, neither the burn inside.

I collapsed onto the floor of the shower, letting the water hit my face, my chest, my spent cock.

“I have to stay away,” I said aloud, as if saying it would make it true.

But even then, I knew it wasn’t over.

Because somewhere in me, I still hoped.

Still waited.

Still wanted.

And I hated myself for it.

So instead of letting my thoughts rot me from the inside out, I threw on a hoodie, grabbed my gym bag, and drove into the night - hoping the weight of the bar would feel heavier than the weight of wanting him.

I honestly never come to the gym this late. But tonight, with my apartment feeling too quiet, too haunted by the hum of what I’m trying not to feel, it seems like a good enough idea. The treadmill won’t silence my thoughts, but maybe a good lift will exhaust them.

The gym is winding down when I arrive - rows of machines mostly empty, just a couple of guys by the weights, a girl on a stair stepper scrolling between sets. It’s quiet enough to feel like background noise. Just what I need. Or so I thought - because tonight, unbeknownst to me, I’d come face-to-face with what I want… and what I shouldn’t.

I settle onto the bench press, earbuds in, but no music playing. Just something to fill the space - and signal I’m not in the mood for meaningless banter. I press the bar up, down, up, breathing into the rhythm, trying to forget. The tension in my chest isn’t just the weight - it’s him as well. Still lodged in me like a splinter.

I’m mid-set, muscles burning, when I feel a shift in the air.

And then I see him.

Bryn.

He’s standing over me - suddenly, impossibly, there - bending slightly with a hand braced on his thigh, watching me with a hesitant sort of focus. His cheeks are flushed from his workout, and there’s a soft sheen of sweat glistening at his temples, collarbones, the curve of his neck.

He’s wearing those same damn compression shorts, and I clock them instantly, clinging indecently to every contour of his thick cock, his muscled thighs and that ass I still remember pounding under the falls.

But it’s the tank top that stops me.

Olive green. Thin. Loose enough to hang just right, to dip beneath the line of his chest with every movement. But it’s not the cut that draws me - it’s what’s pressing against it.

His nipples, round and firm, perked from the cool air or maybe just the heat inside him. They’re distracting. Shameless. The kind of detail that would’ve made me lose my train of thought even before I’d known what they felt like under my tongue. I remind myself - I’d already seen them bare, tasted them. And I force myself to look away, to focus on what really matters - him.

“I can spot you, if you want,” he says, voice casual - but soft. Almost uncertain.

I sit up. Grab my towel.

Wipe sweat from my forehead, not looking at him.

When I do, I catch him standing there awkwardly, like he’s not sure where to put his hands. The cocky energy he wore like armour at the coffee shop is gone. What’s left is just him. And me, caught between memory and consequence.

“What do you want, Bryn?” I ask. My voice is hoarse. Low. Tired. “Really.”

He blinks. “I - ”

I hold his gaze. Wait.

He swallows. “I miss you at the coffee shop. And I miss our chats.”

There’s a pause. A moment that feels too long, too open.

I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Is that all you miss? Or do you also miss my cock up your ass?” I realise how bitter I sound, but I can’t stop myself. “And do I need to remind you that you’re a married man?”

His mouth opens - closes. He looks away for a second, jaw working, like he wants to fight me but doesn’t know where to start. "I want you," he whispers. "Not just the sex. You."

“There’s no future here,” I add, softer this time. “Whatever it was we did… it’s not something we can build on.”

I feel the burn rise in my throat. Not from the workout. From the rage. The helpless, unfair rage I’ve lived through before. That I let it happen again.

But I don’t explode. I get up. Turn. Walk.

Away from the confrontation, away from Bryn.

The steam room door hisses when I open it, the warmth wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t ask for – but I’m happy to accept it. I step inside, towel slung low around my hips, and I sit in the far corner, back to the wall, eyes on the haze ahead.

I’m alone. For a while.

Then the door opens again.

And there he is. Bryn.

Naked. Not even pretending to cover up.

He steps in like it’s nothing, like the air between us isn’t heavy with things we can’t say. His cock hangs half-hard between his thighs - swinging slightly as he walks, semi-erect and utterly unapologetic. He sits across from me on the bench, spreading his legs a little too wide, like he isn’t fully aware of the power he holds.

 Or maybe he is. Because he sits a little too far to touch, but close enough that the heat of his body - literal and otherwise - seeps into the space between us.

And God help me, I remember his body too clearly.

I try not to look. But of course I look.

It’s not just the size - though I remember the weight of it in my mouth, the way he moaned when I sucked him deep. It’s the dangerous presence of it now. Half-thick and glistening faintly with sweat. I shift on the bench.

We sit in silence for a minute. Then he speaks.

“I know this is complicated,” he says. “I know I’ve fucked things up.”

I snort. “You think?”

He exhales, runs a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat. “But I’m not here to pretend it didn’t mean anything. I can’t do that.”

“It meant something to me too,” I admit, hating how raw it sounds. “But it doesn’t change the facts. You’re not free, Bryn. You don’t understand what’s at stake here.”

He nods. Quiet. Thoughtful. “I’m also here at an unusual time”, he says. “I think it was meant to be that we bumped into each other again.”

“And I do want to be with you,” he admits, eyes meeting mine. Then he tells me how he fucked himself on the rug in his living room with his wife’s plug, imagining it was my cock doing the fucking.

 How, when his breath slowed and he began to cool, he lifted his head - and froze. Because there, above the fireplace, he saw the framed photo of the three of them. Smiling like they have everything.

How his chest caved in when the weight of what he’d just done crushed down on him, sharp and cold. How guilt surged through him, suffocating. How he felt worthless without me by his side.

 How he curled onto his side and let the tears flow - silent, hot, and useless. How he wondered what the fuck he is doing?

And then the punchline – “I know exactly what’s at stake here, Bruno – but I still want to be with you. Even if I don’t know, or understand, why.”

That lands between us like thunder.

I study him. Really study him. The curve of his lips. The vulnerability in his eyes. The barely-contained want in his body. And the confusion that’s written all over him.

“This isn’t a game,” I say. “I’m not your experiment to be discarded when you’re done, Bryn. I’ve been down this road before, and it didn’t end well for me. I’m not walking that path again.”

“I didn’t know.” He whispers.

“You don’t get to pick me up when you’re horny and drop me when the baby cries.” I say, the bitterness still there.

“I’m not trying to,” he says, voice tight. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just…  I know I can’t stop thinking about you.”

I close my eyes, lean back, let the steam rise around me like smoke. My cock stirs just slightly - traitorous, aching. I think of the waterfall. Of his body against mine. Of how easily I could slide across the tiles and take him, right now.

But I don’t.

Because I know how this ends. And yet…

I open my eyes.

He’s still watching me. Still hardening - slowly now, that semi stretching toward full - as the silence draws out.

I don’t move. Not yet.

But my voice comes softer now. “Then figure it out. Before you come back again.”

I want to tell him I’m not a homewrecker, that I never asked to fall into this. But the words lodge in my throat like everything else I’ve swallowed for years.

And this time, he doesn’t argue. He just nods - slow, deliberate - like he’s finally hearing me.

And for the first time, I wonder if this ache between us might mean something after all.

Bryn stands to leave. His body shifts in the steam, muscles flexing as he rises, cock heavy and flushed, swinging between his thighs. He reaches for the door without a word.

I watch the way his back arches slightly as he walks, those sculpted glutes clenched just enough to make me lose all remaining composure.

That ass. That ass.

I can’t let it walk away.

“Wait.”

The word cracks through the haze, louder than I meant it to be. Commanding.

He stops mid-step. Turns, slowly.

I rise, towel falling from my hips in one fluid motion. My cock is already hard - angry, flushed, dripping. “Come here.”

He hesitates. Just a flicker. But then he does.

He walks to me like he’s not sure whether it’s surrender or defiance, and I don’t give him the chance to decide. My hands are on him in an instant - one gripping the nape of his neck, the other seizing his hip as I press him back against the tiled wall.

He gasps - and I take his mouth before the sound’s finished leaving him.

I kiss him like I’m starving. Like he’s the air I’ve been denied. His lips part and I don’t wait - I plunge my tongue into his mouth, devouring him, pulling a desperate whimper from deep in his chest.

My hand slides down the curve of his spine. I grab his ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, spreading him slightly as I grind my cock against him.

“Bruno - ” he breathes, barely audible, already trembling.

“No,” I growl against his mouth. “You don’t speak right now. You take.”

He shudders. He turns and places his hands to brace him against the wall, palms flat on the tile, legs slightly spread. Ready. Willing.

And I’m not gentle. I channel all my rage and heartbreak into him.

I drop to my knees behind him, bite the meat of his left ass cheek hard enough to make him groan, then soothe it with my tongue. I spit between his cheeks, watch it glisten, then spread him wider and lick a slow, devastating stripe up his hole. He jerks.

“Fuck - ”

“I said don’t speak,” I snap, then do it again. This time I don’t stop. I devour him.

Tongue working circles, plunging in, teasing, then retreating. I lick and bite and suck until he’s moaning openly, his legs trembling, hips rocking back into my face like he’s starving for more.

Please,” he pants. I slap his ass. “You don’t beg yet.”

I rise, grip the back of his neck, and press him down until his chest hits the warm tile. His ass is perfectly arched, hole wet and twitching, and my cock feels like steel as I line it up.

“You remember this?” I whisper, dragging the head of my cock over his hole, watching it clench. “You think the waterfall was intense? That was foreplay.”

He whimpers - and I thrust.

Hard.

Deep.

No warning.

He screams - half pleasure, half shock - and his body jerks forward, but I hold him firm. Hands braced on his hips, I pull him back and fuck him in one long, relentless stroke.

“Jesus – fuck – Bruno - ”

I growl and pound into him again, harder. “That’s what you’ve been craving, isn’t it? You miss this.”

He tries to respond, but it comes out as a broken moan.

“You don’t need soft,” I snarl against his ear as I bend over him, thrusting now with brutal rhythm, “You need someone to take you.”

His breath is ragged. He’s a mess - drooling, screaming, his cock bouncing untouched with every thrust.

“You want to be filled until you forget your fucking name?”

He nods violently. “Yes - yes, fuck, yes - don’t stop - don’t stop - ”

I don’t. I slam into him, harder now, relentless. Skin slapping skin, steam curling around us.

He grunts with every impact, body breaking open beneath me. His hands scrabble at the tiles like he’s trying to hold on to something - but I don’t give him anything to hold on to. Just my cock. Just my weight. Just this claiming.

“Say it,” I growl. “Say what you miss.”

“You,” he gasps. “You. This. Your cock. Your fucking everything -

“That’s right.”

I grab his hair, yank his head back, and fuck him even deeper, feeling his body go limp, spine arching, mouth open in stunned, blissed-out surrender.

“You’ll think about this every time you fuck your wife under those perfect sheets, won’t you?”

He nods, whimpering, “I already do – fuck - I already do - ”

“Good.”

I reach around and grab his cock, stroke it once - and that’s all it takes. He explodes.

Shudders, spasms, shoots thick ropes of cum against the wall and collapses into me, crying out like it’s too much.

I’m not done. I keep fucking him - even through his orgasm, even as his legs quake and he tries to crawl away - I hold him firm and I take.

“Mine,” I snarl. And I mean it.

When I finally cum, it’s with a guttural moan and a final brutal thrust that buries me balls-deep.

I fill him, pulse after pulse, watching him shake as I empty into him, collapsing over his back, both of us drenched in sweat and steam and sex.

He gasps for breath. Collapses to his knees.

I follow him down. Wrap my arms around his heaving body. Rest my forehead against the back of his neck.

Neither of us speaks. Not yet.

But he knows.

This is what he’s been missing.

And now that he’s had it again… he’ll never stop wanting more.

Report
What did you think of this story?
Share Story

In This Story