No Regrets – Let the barista take me in the back after closing

I’m 23, redhead, usually the sweet type—yoga pants, iced vanilla lattes, soft dresses. That night I stayed late at my usual café working on wedding-planning notes. It was past closing. The place was empty except for the barista who’d been making my drinks for months. Tall, quiet, always a little intense when he looked at me. I’d been drinking a bit at a work thing earlier and was still buzzing, restless, and honestly just horny in that reckless way.

He locked the front door and started cleaning up. I watched him for a while, then just said it. Asked if he wanted to earn a little extra cash or if he just wanted to fuck me. He stared at me for a second like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right, then laughed under his breath and told me to come to the back.

We went into the small storage room behind the counter. It smelled like coffee and cleaner. He didn’t waste time. Pushed me up against the metal shelving, kissed me hard, and got his hands under my dress. I wasn’t wearing anything special underneath—plain cotton panties, the kind I wear when I’m not trying. He pulled them down, felt how wet I already was, and made a low sound like he’d been waiting for this.

I dropped to my knees on the concrete floor and took him out. He was already hard. I sucked him the way I like to when I’m feeling greedy—slow at first, then deeper, looking up at him while I did it. He had one hand in my hair, not pushing, just holding. When I pulled off he was shiny and thick and I could tell he was close already.

He hauled me up, turned me around, and bent me over a stack of supply boxes. Pushed my dress up over my hips, spread me open with his thumbs, and slid in. No condom. I didn’t ask for one. He felt huge like that—hot and thick and stretching me in that perfect almost-too-much way. He started fucking me in steady, deep strokes that made the boxes shift. One hand stayed on my hip, the other reached around to rub my clit. I was so wet it was running down my thighs.

He kept talking under his breath the whole time—how tight I was, how long he’d thought about doing this when I came in for my latte, how good I looked bent over for him. I came first, hard, clenching around him and moaning into my arm so it wouldn’t carry. He didn’t stop. Just kept pounding into me until he groaned and buried himself deep, pulsing inside me. I felt every spurt.

We stayed like that for a minute, both breathing hard. Then he pulled out slow and I felt it start to drip down my leg. We cleaned up as best we could with paper towels. He kissed me once more, softer this time, and told me to come back whenever I wanted another “late coffee.”

I walked out into the cool night with his cum still leaking out of me and my panties stuffed in my bag. Risky as hell. Probably stupid. Got tested after just to be sure, all clear. I still think about it every time I walk into that café—the way he looked at me while he was inside me, the way I let him fill me without even hesitating.

No regrets. Not even a little.