Winter Coffee Love

Winter Coffee Love    
   
     Her luster is that of a mother of pearl but her eyes are dark as the Black Madonna painting in a Polish monastery of his wife who waits on a night when the air is heavy with coffee.  
     “This commissary is solely for coffee and pastries. We don’t serve square meals. But wait until I get off duty and I’ll whip you up a dinner fit for a king.”    
     “For a moment I forgot where I was. Even though you are my wife here I am your patron to be treated as such.”    
     “Well, part of my job description is to check the patrons for overcooling. It is winter after all. Give me your hand. Yes, your circulation is still healthy but my, your hand is cold. You need a rub down which happens to be part of my duty. So let’s get some friction in gear. Ah, your temperature is warming nicely but only in your hand.”    
     “What would you suggest as a means to bring heat to my overall body?”    
     “Well, if we were at home a nicely played hanky panky would make for immediate mercury rise. But here our risqué must be limited to the standard massage therapy. However, even a practitioner of conventional massage can do some tricks on the boundary of societal morals. So lean across the counter and let me loosen your belt for a denim dip.”    
     “But we are in public a place that historically would be a business though in our dystopian culture is a collectivist establishment. Are you actually prone to expose me?”    
     “Well yes, I must confess that is in my mind. But since this will be a medical technique and one I practice as such I see no harm in practicing my art on your gluteus in this shelter for refugees from the cold. In fact, your buckle need not be the only fastener undone. Your zipper is a prime candidate for undoing.”    
     “Well, you have me down to my briefs. Give me  
a second to catch my breath. Though you are my wife I feel immodest.”    
     “Don’t fret, you are still duly covered by your cotton thingy. Now for my promised warm-up. My hand is soft as a sponge but strong as a brigade of nurses ready to scrub you into a tepid state.”    
     “If I were anymore bare my skin would blush. Your rub is getting rougher by the minute.  Your hand feels more like pumice than a sponge.”  
     “You won’t lose any hair from my touch.”  
     His derriere is her domain for a sweet bottom warming from her hand’s glissade. Her hands are radiant heat for his hungry Chakra galaxy. Each node of her path to heaven pulses into his sensory web.
     “Oh my, I can feel your heat even through the fabric. Coffee time for you and me. First zip up then take a seat on your aching bottom. After that, the roasted bean will be yours to imbibe.”
     “I am winterized by my beloved’s hand. Am I warm enough to your touch?”    
     “Let me slip my hand underneath your cotton. Yes, you feel ready for the chilly winds of January. But the key test is your lips which are best felt by a kiss from me since my lips are sensitive for the task. Ah yes, just right my love.”  
     Her coffee offer is made with a smile warm enough to melt butter and her lilt is a force of nature that summons him into a dream from which he draws strength.