PART 2 - STUDY HALL
You know when something happens in your life and because of it you know something else is inevitably going to happen but there’s nothing you can do to stop it? You find yourself at a juncture where there might appear to be options but really it’s just a single path, a solo door - and you know, beyond any reasonable doubt, that it’s the one door you’re gonna walk through.
Maybe it’s destiny. I don’t fucking know. But one thing I did know, driving back to my place the morning after I met Bear - there was absolutely no way in hell I was going to be able to stay away from Rebel Cup. Maybe I wouldn’t go that morning, or the next morning, but sure as shit one fine morning I would be walking into that cafe to look for Bear and that unreal piece of meat between his legs.
As it turns out, it wasn’t just the next morning. It was every morning. I made Rebel Cup my new study spot before bartending school. It was super popular back then, always crowded in the morning with lawyers and city councilmen, yoga moms, failed artists. Somehow I never failed to get a table. A dirty chai latte and a spot against the wall where I could bury my nose in a book but keep my eyes locked on the only thing that mattered: Bear.
Towering over the La Marzocco espresso machine he never missed a beat, chatting up his customers and directing the other employees. In the light of day he still sent chills up my spine. Thick black hair swept back, heavy black stubble over his cheeks and fire blue eyes made him seem like some kind of mythical demigod fresh from battle in the Mediterranean. He made that espresso machine sing - his hands were the epitome of capable, his shoulders radiated strength and virility - and his voice! Lord Jesus his voice, with an accent maybe Portuguese or Italian, sounded like a bass cauldron - so deep and resonant people seemed to acquiesce to his requests without even knowing why.
Holy God I’m getting wet just thinking about those first days. Sitting there, watching him work, watching his hands, imagining what he was hiding below the counter.
I had kinda psyched myself out about his dick at that point. I had pretty much convinced myself that although he no doubt had a big cock, there was no way it could have existed at the gargantuan proportions I had seen in that bathroom. Like, no way. Trick of the moonlight, as they say. Little too much Jim Bean and Sour Diesel kush. Still, every time he’d step out from behind the machine to take someone’s order I shot ocular lasers straight at his apron, hoping to x-ray my way through. Alas, no dice. No swell, no bulge. No indication of any giant package.
One of the first things I did notice, however, was how all the female customers seemed to only want to talk to Bear. They made excuses to keep coming up to the counter to ask for things, tittering and giggling and sweeping their hair. Old women, teenage girls. It didn’t matter. Bear was kind to them all, but never seemed to really flirt back. Even on the many, many occasions I watched college girls drop their numbers in the tip jar, Bear just smiled and put them in his pocket.
With men it was a different story. Not only did the male customers seem hesitant to approach him, they seemed downright passive, placating, cowed in his presence. Even without knowing why, men instinctively yielded to his dominance. One morning I watched this pudgy lawyer approach the counter girl, Anna, and complain that his macchiato didn’t have enough milk. He started to lay into her before Bear intervened. Without batting an eye Bear took the man’s drink and upended it on the floor in front of him.
If you don’t even know what you’re ordering, said Bear, you get nothing at all.
The lawyer didn’t even look up from his ruined loafers.
Apologize to Anna, said Bear.
The lawyer apologized immediately and left quickly, stammering, clearly shamed.
I was totally shocked. The guy was a fucking lawyer pulling six figures easy and he got bullied by a barista. But knowing what I know now, I realize the submissiveness stemmed from something else entirely, something much more innate, much more primal: alpha dominance. Subconsciously the chubby little lawyer knew he was in the presence of a superior man - a much bigger man - a truly hung man. Must be in the musk or some shit. Big dick pheromones. I don’t know. My head was swimming. I certainly wasn’t immune.
Right after the lawyer marched out Bear put his arm around Anna and she snuggled into his chest. He whispered something into her ear and she giggled. Pangs of jealousy gnawed at my gut. Brooke, get a hold of yourself, I thought. Jealous? You? Fuckin A. Get a grip.
But watching them together, making drinks behind the counter, I couldn’t help but notice Bear treated Anna differently than everyone else. It seemed like they were well acquainted. Even…intimate.
He would walk behind her when she was on the espresso machine, towering over her to offer tips on pulling shots, pressing up closer than necessary. I swear a few times I saw Anna close her eyes, bite her lip, shudder. And always the whispering. He’d bend down and make little comments in her ear and she’d blush like a pink peach.
To any other guy who came into the cafe Anna gave the same compulsory customer service smile. And plenty of them came to talk to her. Anna was legendary around town - because Anna’s ass was legendary. I mean, literally, legendary. Men stopped to try and sneak pics on the street. I had friends who stalked her obsessively at Rebel Cup, guys who tried like hell to get her number. She gave them all the cold shoulder. Like she could give two fucks. Any admirers she froze right out. Sorry, not interested. No chance. So guys called her uptight, a frigid bitch. But god did they want her.
Anna had come from France to live with her sister to try out the US for a little bit. She looked every bit like a French porcelain doll. Huge glass blue eyes, perfect peach skin and fat red bee-sting lips all framed inside flowing strawberry blonde curls. She wasn’t super skinny, just ultra feminine. A beautiful hourglass figure with small breasts usually tucked into a tight bodysuit.
Then came the bottom part. From that wicked slender delicate waist all the way down she was breeding perfection (see, now I’m even thinking like Bear taught me to think). Her hips flared and gave way to two thick mounds of luscious meat jutting out over sleek muscular thighs. She usually wore black spandex yoga pants (probably the only thing that contain that ass) and the effect was unreal: material strained so tight it was almost transparent. She looked like some kind of hentai cartoon - the embodiment of hyper-sexualized innocence. Every man in the place watched that thickness ripple and bounce as she flitted through the cafe.
I almost felt sorry for the girl with the amount of attention she got. In a way it seemed nature had cursed her. Her body was so absurdly sexual and yet she seemed so very prude. Watching her flirt with Bear I felt uneasy, sick almost. Almost like I should warn the girl. Did she understand what he could do to her?
I started to daydream. Bear’s fat dick. That little French girl. Could he be fucking her? Was that even possible? Could she possibly even know what he was packing? I admit I drifted away from my bartending studies into anatomical fantasy on the reg, trying to picture Anna on her hands and knees, taking Bear’s meat. There was just no way, I decided. First of all, no way that Bear even had a dick like I imagined, and second - that Anna would ever be on her hands and knees sucking and fucking. She was too pure. Too perfect. But those hips…and that ass…she looked like her body could be, uh, accommodating.
