Kinky coffee shop dates are featuring highly in my fantasies right now – probably because I’m spending a lot of time sitting in them writing smut. When I started writing this story, I was flirting with a friend who I hope I’ll get to spend more time with in 2019. (And if you’re a gorgeous, brat-leaning sub and self-identified pain slut who bought me pancakes recently, then yes, I am talking about you.)
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Content note for semi-public play.
We hug outside the coffee shop. It feels strange to actually be meeting her: it always does when you’ve spent so long talking to someone online and finally are getting to see them in person. We’d been flirting for a while, but there was no certainty that the chemistry from Twitter would carry over to a face-to-face interaction.
I’ve dressed carefully for today – and not only for the cold weather. Aware that she’ll be aware of the power dynamics between us, and I want her to remember that I’m in charge. She’ll notice the heeled boots and the black leather clothes – small tokens of femdom combined with my patterned skirt and fluffy scarf. Cute and innocent in appearance, yet utterly filthy minded.
“Do you remember your safeword?” I say in a low voice.
“Yes Miss,” she replies, smiling.
The coffee shop is warm and crowded, but there are some quiet booths in the back that will give us a little privacy. I’ve chosen this location because I want to tease her and fuck with her a little in public while respecting her boundaries for semi-public kink.
“What would you like?” I ask her.
“I’m just going to have a gingerbread latte, but I’ll get it…”
I cut her off with a sharp look, placing my hand firmly on the small of her back.
“No, I’ll get it. You go and get a seat in the corner over there. Make sure you keep your hands on the table. If you’ve been a good girl for me this week, I’m sure you’ll be so desperate that you might be tempted to touch yourself, even here.”
She hesitates, but I know she won’t want to argue with me in public. She knows I won’t draw attention to what we’re doing, but part of her hopes that I might. She nods. I watch her do as she’s told, and grin. I want to do very, very mean things to her.
I join the queue, looking her way every minute or so to ensure she’s being a good girl. She meets my eye the first time, but afterwards she’s looking at her hands (spread flat on the table, like she was told to) and blushing. Her embarrassment is delightful, and I wonder how much that blush will deepen when I begin to whisper dirty words in her ear.
When I sit down opposite her, we playfully argue over who gets which of the delicate pastries (one chocolate and raspberry, one chocolate and hazelnut). I pretend not to notice how closely she watches me take off my gloves and set them down on the table, and wait until we’re talking about books and her eyes flicker to them again to lean forward.
“Are you imagining me spanking you with them?”
She starts, fear and arousal mixing in her eyes as she looks at me. I smile.
“I take that as a yes, then. Though I think I wouldn’t start with that. I think I’d make you wait…”
She groans softly and hides her face in her hands.
“Oh, is someone a wee bit frustrated?” I reach for her hands and keep holding one of them. She lets me.
“You know I am, Miss.”
“I think you look cute when you’re frustrated, so I’m definitely going to tease you before I spank you. I’ll run my leather-glove-clad hands all over your vulnerable, naked body. Find out all the places I want to hurt later. I’ll pinch and watch you whimper, then make you hold yourself still so I can do it again.”
She bites her lip, as though she’s holding back one of the aforementioned whimpers.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Because you’re such a little pain slut that you’re probably wet right now, aren’t you?”
“Oh fuck. Yes Miss.”
I lace my fingers with hers and rest our hands on the table.
“But you would earn your spanking in the end. Probably combined with a nice, hard fingering – all while still wearing the gloves, of course. I’d twist your nipples so tightly you wince, then use them to drag you across to the bed. If I’m wearing these gloves I can spank you for a lot longer time without my hand getting sore – I think you’d like that. And you’d like me dipping my fingers into your cunt and smearing your own wetness on your arse so the strikes hurt even more.”
A beat passes – she doesn’t look away and nor do I. She looks captivated and adorable and I want to kiss her.
“Want me to put them on?” I ask her. “No, I have a better offer: want me to put them on and hurt you?”
“What can you do to me here?” she asks, part incredulity, part pure brat.
“Think I can’t hurt you, little pain slut?”
She grins cheekily, then yelps quietly as I pinch the soft flesh of her forearm.
“You’d be amazed at how much I can hurt you, just with my hands in these black leather gloves, just with us sitting here. I can hurt you so you have to bite back your moans of pain. No one will know, assuming you don’t make a fuss… think you can handle it?
She nods eagerly. I smile.
“But first, can I kiss you?”
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.