Lives would be stirred. Coffee could do that. Black, bittersweet, tantalising. There was something about coffee he couldn't resist. Ah, making it; he couldn't stand the taste. He drank in only the pleasure on the faces of those he had served - a cup of perfection.
He had been told a million times by pleased customers how delightful and perfectly heady the coffee he made was. He had smiled, pleased, a million times too. He held their keys. He knew their pleasures. He had known they'd come back, every day of his 20 years, in his famous little cafe.
There were five cups already on that side table. "Small, bloody hotel furniture," he would often cuss under his breath. The cups nudged each other, threatening to fall, break. He cringed. Coffee was meant to be served in style; not stolen through the night in places forbidden.
Served in style, alright. She had sent back a neatly folded note, written in a neat hand, placed in a neat little envelope. 'No; this wasn't one of those tacky lipstick smeared pieces of tissue paper', he had noticed. He held the note in his hand and asked the waiter who had sent it. What the waiter pointed at was a flash of canary yellow, leaving the cafe. And bright blue stilettos too. 'How interesting', he had thought. He curiously opened the note, revering each fold, to see what Ms. Bright Blue shoes had to say to him. "MORE." it said.
He had learnt since then that 'more' was about insatiable appetites. They were about endless loops of Coffee... Pleasure... Coffee... Pleasure... Coffee... She had made him brew coffee for her five times on their first night together. One cup at a time. Each time he doubted his excesses, she didn't pull him back; she pushed him away. He obeyed, went to the kitchenette in their suite, and made another cup. The cream and the demerara had found new purposes.
She was unhurried. She'd stretch, each young muscle languorous, and sit up. He couldn't help but envy how unselfconscious she was in her nakedness, as she stretched out her hand and accepted the cup. Each time she would murmur a thanks and sip on the coffee, while he watched. She knew he couldn't just watch for long. She closed her eyes, tasted the hot liquid, smelt it, felt it go down her throat, aware of his growing sense of ecstasy and agony.
Sometimes, she would let a drop sit on her lips and ask him to lick it off. "Bear a little bitter for me," she'd say. And he would oblige.
Ms. Bright Blue shoes returned three days later. Her outfit didn't really match the shoes, but they were her favourite. He noticed them right away; he had been waiting, as he never had before. He also noticed the 20-something nubile body sitting pretty in the shoes. Beautiful toes; mocha in blue. He was 40, but he went right ahead. "More?" he had asked her, half expecting her to giggle in response. But she had raised her head from her book nonchalantly, looked straight into his eyes and said, "I see you can read. Yes, please."
He was hurt and pleased. He had served her three vengefully dark cups on that day, knowing well this addiction would be hard to break.
He tasted the bitter drop, then her lips. The green apple chapstick flavour was long gone. Her mouth was now lined with his bitter espressos. He winced at the first taste. He had to have his own back first, and then he could have her. He cupped her pert little breast in one hand and took away her cup with the other - placing it carefully on the side table. He then forced her down on the bed, picked up a spoonful of thick, white cream and smeared some on her coffee-coloured, sculpted back. He licked it. Rubbed in coarse grains of brown sugar too, hurting her. He never minded coffee's counterparts. She turned around, pulled him closer and locked her lips with his. He stroked her, caressed her and teased her, till she could take no more. She begged him to take her. He nodded. He entered her, eyes fixed on her face, watching every crest and trough of pleasure and pain. It was like watching a connoisseur's face, as they drank in that pleasurable liquid. He smiled. He knew there would be more.