Iryna Ivanova

Iryna Ivanova

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Iryna Ivanova, Miss August 2011, and the mysteries of Starbucks


Iryna Ivanova, Miss August 2011, and the mysteries of Starbucks


Submitted: May 16, 2013

A A A | A A A


Submitted: May 16, 2013



I’m a grad student at the University of Chicago and most people think that somehow I’m supposed to know stuff and I guess I do know a lot about palaeopathology so if you really need to know how King Tut died or if you think you contracted some kind of medieval plague I’m the guy you want to talk to. Now before you decide that my job is some sort of time traveling CSI thing I’m a grad student OK. I may get to handle mummies and work with nuclear reactors but I pay my rent by working at Starbucks.

In Chicago there are neighborhoods where you could throw a rock in any direction and hit someone carrying a cardboard cup of Starbucks product. If you don’t hit a person that’s only because you broke a plate glass window of  a Starbucks shop instead. I work in one of those neighborhoods and that’s where my story really begins.

It’s the afternoon of Christmas Eve 2010 and the streets are jumping with last minute shoppers and folk anxious to get home to trim the tree with the kiddies. Adding to the anxiety of the countdown to the big day is the news that another big storm is blowing in and about to sock the city hard and maybe even screw up Santa’s itinerary.  And of course, nothing will ease all this tension like a decaf Eggnog Latte from your neighborhood Starbucks. People are pouring into the shop and getting mellowed out by the jazz stylings of the Jose Feliciano Christmas album (Available only at Starbucks) and pumped up to face the holiday and crappy weather with a Starbucks drink either loaded with caffeine or sugar but usually loaded with plenty of both.

The music may be mellow in front but in the back room the radio is tuned to the news station and they are all disaster all the time and have been screaming about lake-effect storms for the last four hours.

All the Starbucks baristas are slyly making up reasons to end their shifts early; most of them have parents to please or roommates with bongs to share for this holiday season and pretty soon it’s just me and the manager. Joe, the manager, is kind of a sadsack guy. I don’t know how he manages a family with five kids but I do know he holds two jobs at least. He’s not a bad guy and when he gives you shit it’s only ‘cause the owners gave him shit.  He’s kind of easy to push around actually so it’s no surprise that by about 5PM on Christmas Eve with the entire city in one kind of panic or another and in desperate need of coffee and sugar to stoke that panic, at our Starbucks that afternoon it winds up to be just me and Joe.

Joe keeps giving me this Droopy Hound kind of a look and doing a lot of sighing.  He wants to go home or to his other job but he’s afraid to ask me.  He makes a big show of cleaning up around all the customers and filling all the supplies. I know what’s coming and I guess as sort of a Christmas gesture I say it first. “Hey, Joe. I can handle the crowd and I’ve closed before. You better get going. Commuting is going to be real bad.”

Joe does not give me an argument and in about five minutes he’s gone.

Time is blurred after that and I’m busier than the elves at the North Pole now; shit, all they have to do is load up the sled. I’ve got to make mocha frappuccinos and do the dishes and bus the tables and check the bathroom and deal with a lot of grouchiness. The anxious customers maybe going for some Christmas cheer but once they hit the counter at Starbucks all they want is their fucking coffee.

The only thing Christmasy is every once in awhile a customer is looking to buy a gift card for a stocking stuffer or one of the novelty mugs. Nobody wants the custom made Starbucks Christmas ornaments though. The Jose Feliciano jazzy Christmas tunes are becoming stomach churning and the radio in the back is getting more frenzied in its screaming warnings about the snowstorm.

Then suddenly, like it’s the whatchucallit, the thing where all the Christians suddenly disappear- the rapture; suddenly there’s nobody but me in the Starbucks, me and Jose and he’s strumming along and riffing on Silent Night and the tune is mixing in with the weather guy on the radio practically in tears ‘cause he’s stuck in the studio on Christmas Eve.

I take the opportunity to sit down; along one wall is a fake leather couch and I put my feet up. Of course as soon as I get comfy the door bursts open and somebody in a snorkel coat, too big ski pants, and really hairy boots comes stomping in. This person is ready for Artic weather. I stay in my seat and let the customer stew for a minute or two then one of the bulky gloves comes off and I see a slender, well-manicured hand and the porcelain hard nails begin to drum on the counter.

While I don’t give a fuck about the customer’s impatience, there’s something damn sexy about that hand, the only bit of flesh visible on this customer so I get up and get to work.

“Peppermint Mocha; venti. Also Eggnog Latte; also venti.” The voice coming out of the fur lined tunnel of the snorkel parka is feminine and European sounding, like a femme fatale in a spy movie.

“To go?”

“No, I drink here.”

That gives me pause; between the Peppermint Mocha and the Eggnog Latte she’s in for about 150% of her daily allotment of fat. I shrug. Anybody who needs two of those drinks must be a tub of lard so her probable sexy quotient, beyond the killer fingernails and sultry foreign accent, must be nil; I presume a tub of lard is under all that bulky winter garb and I shrug it off.

I set to work and she goes and sits on the fake couch where I had just been resting. The other glove comes off and she sure does have nice hands but she stays bundled up otherwise. She continues to tap nervously, as if the caffeine and sugar were crack and she needs a fix badly.

I work on the drinks and Jose sings about a winter wonderland and the weather guy is sobbing about a snowpocalypse, the end of Christmas as we know it. The parka covered head cocks as if listening, sorting and parsing the sounds of froth being frothed, guitars being strummed, carols being caroled, and the world’s most panicked newscaster being panicked. She decides one which one irks her the most. “Amerikanz have no spine. This snow nothink.”

OK, Natasha, I guess Boris Badanov will be joining you later. I put the two mugs of fat, caffeine, and sugar on a tray and carry them over.

“Sit,” she commands in a voice that would not be out of place in an interrogation room in the Kremlin.

I’m about to turn away but she commands again, “Sit.” What the hell. It’s Christmas so I sit.

The dainty hands wrap around the mug of Peppermint Mocha and the parka covered head leans over and she breathes in the bouquet. She sighs with pleasure and leans back, as if delaying the satisfaction of her orgy of coffee and cream indulgence. Speaking of orgies though: “First, Starbucks drinkink, then we fuckink.”

It takes me a second to deconstruct what she just said; Jose is sing about joy to the world and the weather man is actually crying. I shrug and imagine fucking a tub of lard addicted to Starbucks calories and figure, what the hell; it’s Christmas. I’ve read about how women’s libidos are stimulated by caffeine and I figure that it’s my duty as a barista to serve the public in whatever way I can.

“Sure,” I mumble to be agreeable. “Why not?”

She apparently isn’t used to Americanisms like ‘why not’ because she tells me exactly why. “I tell you why,” she says sternly, her voice floating out of the snorkel. “Today I sign big contract. I shoot Playmate. Need to be fuckink like American.”

For a second I’m thinking she’s some Russian mobster who just did a hit on a playmate but then she pushes the hood of the parka off her head and luxurious dark hair comes tumbling down around her shoulders. Her brown eyes are sparkling and her mouth is pouty but luscious. She picks up the mug of Peppermint Mocha and takes a gulp. A tiny bit of cream is left on the tip of her nose as she puts the mug down. “First coffee, then fuckink,” she repeats. She looks at me with an appraising eye and I’m reminded of all the femme fatales in all the movies and I’m certain that I’m getting an ice pick in the back of skull before this night is over. “I require excellent fuckink. You can manage?”

I gulp but nod, trying to convey some confidence I’m no longer feeling.

She drinks more of her Peppermint Mocha then switches to Eggnog Latte. She’s taking her time, listening to the mix of Jose and weather man and keeping an eye on me in case I decide to change my mind.

About halfway through both drinks she kicks off the hairy boots and without getting up she shucks off the ski pants and parka. Yeah, she’s going to a playmate alright. Her body is voluptuous and all she’s wearing is a tight sweater and leggings. Her enormous breasts are quivering under the sweater and the wooly fabric is teasing her nipples. She puts a foot in my lap and her toes work to measure my equipment.

“Da,” she decides, “You will give good fuckink. You have blowjob first. I am expert.” She goes back to slowly slurping her coffee. I’m pretty much speechless and Jose is telling me that herald angels are singing on high.

“You know of Playboy? Big company, correct? I am now official playmate. I have paper. This summer maybe. I sign for shoot today. You like playmates?”

I nod.

“You are being strong silent kind. Cowboy in Chicago. I like cowboys. Take out cock. I am needink some suckink.”

What the hell, it’s Christmas. I stand next to where she’s sitting and she doesn’t wait for me to unzip; her fingers are nimble and expert and those porcelain nails are sweet torture on my cock as she pulls it out.

“This will be most excellenk cock for fuckink and suckink. You do good.”

Almost as an afterthought she takes another gulp of Peppermint Mocha before she takes me in her mouth.

By now the Peppermint Mocha is only as warm as her mouth and her mouth is velvety warm and sweet; the minty whipped cream adds and extra little tingle that’s, well, very Christmasy.

I maybe could have gone for a little foreplay but the girl is all business. She gets my dick in her mouth and her tongue and lips and teeth get to work. She reaches around and shoves her hands down my pants so she has a good grip on my ass and then she goes into action, bobbing her head back and forth, using her entire torso for momentum to allow her mouth to fuck my dick to the max.  

I have to hold on to her head to keep myself upright because she’s using pressure, heat, and moisture, plus a tongue with more moves than the Bolshoi Ballet.

Suddenly her head pops off while Jose is singing about the little fucking drummer boy. She cocks her head as if to listen. “Drummer boy. Yes.” She’s decided something but I don’t know what it is. She stands up. “In porno movie American style they have tittie fuckink. You fuck my titties?” She peels off the sweater and for damn sure I’m gonna fuck those titties.

It’s time for me to be at least a little assertive so I take those fine Bolshevik breasts in my hands and I show her how Americas deal with erect nipples. While I’m gulping down her creamy flesh she’s finishing off the Eggnog latte and it actually sounds sexy to hear the froth gurgle down her throat.

She’s into having her breasts suckled; she’s shoving them into my face. “You like these titties. Makink me famous. Miss Summer Playmate Iryna Ivanova.”

I take my mouth off her delicious breasts long enough to finish the introductions. “I’m…” But before I can say any more she’s pushing her nipple back into my open mouth. I guess I’m just a sex object.

She really really likes having her nipples sucked and this goes on through all the endless verses of ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ and half of “Deck the Halls” and then she’s ready for American porno certified tittie fucking, but not before she has me make her a Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate which includes steamed milk, mocha sauce, toffee nut and vanilla syrups, topped with sweetened whipped cream, caramel sauce and a mixture of turbinado sugar and sea salt. It takes a long time to make especially when your pants are down around your hips and your dick is really really hard and desperate and there’s a soon to be playmate wriggling out of her tights so that’s she’s completely naked and arranging herself on the fake leather couch and positioning her enormous breasts for a good old American tittie fucking. Jose is urging me on with joyous news about a savior coming and I’m a professional so I get the Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate done in record time and in record time she’s squeezing her breasts around my dick while I’m holding the mug so she can enjoy her holiday beverage while my dick enjoys her playmate body.

I don’t come in her mouth or on her face. Oh no, she wants it in the Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate which is definitely against store policy (it’s banned in the employee handbook) but what the hell, it’s Christmas Eve and maybe the end of the world.

It’s not so easy to come into a cup though, especially a cup of hot coffee but Iryna wants what she wants and with some contortions from me and some delicate pumping of her slender hand she finally has her custom made mug of holiday cheer. She leans back on the fake leather and gives me a nice view of those lovely breasts and sparkling brown eyes. She sips her drink and wraps both hands around the mug as if warming herself. She is naked after all. “Is good,” she decides after a couple of slurps. She nods towards my already rekindling cock. “You are ready for real good fuckink now?”

I don’t bother answering and let her finish her drink. I’m a little worried that she’s going to want some espresso first but she just sits back and lets Jose serenade her with Silent Night as she concentrates on her drink.

She finally puts the mug down with a satisfied clunk and she licks her lips. Without missing a beat she swings her legs up onto couch and lays back and there’s nothing like the sight of her dark hair spread out and even tumbling to the floor and her breasts spread out in a feast and her thighs gently parting. “We fuck now,” she says confidently and we fuck.

As soon as my dick enters her she’s sobbing and moaning and sputtering out “Da, da, da, lyu-bov mo-ya! ai-da, ai-da, AI-da! blin, nu ti i...! AI-da!” and an endless stream of shit not heard in the halls of the Kremlin since Stalin’s days. She sure knows how to fuck good and her hips go wild as her legs wrap around me. We go at it like cold war warriors and we come in a nuclear fury that could end the world. But she just keeps stroking my back and my ass and kissing my face all over as she mutters in Russian or whatever it is she talks. My dick is soon ready again and so is she. Like Lenin planning a world conquest she arranges herself on her knees with her arms spread over the back of the couch and her ass jutting out at me. I step behind her and we’re drilling again like it is the end of the world.

A customer comes in at that point. I can hear the door open and the cold feet stomping in to the counter. I continue drilling into Iryna though. The customer turns around and I hear an old lady’s voice. “Excuse me.”

Iryna and I stop fucking for a moment and my brain is completely flummoxed but Iryna can’t stand the idea that somebody is deprived of caffeine. “You make Starbucks. I wait.’

It’s only after I climb off of Iryna and the other lady sees her naked soon to be playmate body that it registers: the old lady asks, “Does this come with the coffee on Christmas Eve?” Her voice is hopeful. I get a look at her; she about sixty and laden down with packages, presumably for the grand kiddies. Iryna though doesn’t miss a beat. “Don’t be havink your luck, lady.” She means ‘don’t push your luck’ and she means for me to make the lady her coffee.

I’m brisk about it and as a hint I put her decaf latte in a paper cup but the old lady settles in on the other side of the room determined to enjoy the Starbucks Christmas Spectacular. The naked Iryna is agreeable and pushes the table away so the old lady can watch us fuck doggie style.

Have you ever fucked a bodacious playmate while an old lady watches and Jose is belting out Feliz Navidad? I have to admit that the blind guy’s strumming and wailing are helping me keep it up. What I mean is Iryna really likes to fuck and she really likes to move while she fucks. Her juicy ass is slapping against me and her sweating hands and knees are sliding backwards on the fake leather as she works her pussy over my cock. My job is to hold her hips and keep my balance and keep real hard inside her. And she’s hot and tight and it’s like she got a thousand little tongues inside her working over my cock and one of those tongues is slipping and twisting in the hole at the head of my cock searching for the load she wants to have blasting into her.

OK, I blast into her. I grip her hip with one hand and I grip her hair with the other and pull her head back as I shoot deep inside her. “YE-SCHO! YE-SCHO! Po-ye-byom-sya!” she screams then she lets out a wail that harmonizes with Jose’s version of the Christmas Song. It’s not chestnuts roasting on an open fire; it’s my nuts blasting into her open fire and she’s really into it and she shows her appreciation by coming like a maniac. She hoists herself up and slams her fists down into the fake leather like she’s a wild mare all frenzied with fucking lust. Up and down she goes howling and wailing along with Jose; meanwhile her pussy is tight around my cock and she’s flooding it with moist heat. And the old lady is applauding appreciatively.

Iryna is still on the move. She squirms away from me and grins as she gathers up her gear. But she’s all business too. “I am refreshink in bathroom. You are makink Peppermint Mocha; venti. Also Eggnog Latte; also venti. For goink.” With that she’s gone.

I’m sort of feeling sentimental. After all it’s Christmas you know? And we did just fuck after all. But I straighten my clothes and get busy on the coffee order. And because it’s Christmas I give the old lady a refill too. Iryna’s still in the bathroom so I have time to put up some mistletoe. ‘Cause, you know, it’s Christmas.

The old lady gets a chuckle out of this. “She doesn’t want to be under mistletoe; she wants to be under you.”

I give the old lady a snarky look and then the bathroom door opens. Iryna is in full snortle regalia. She checks out the room like a spy checking all the exits and she notices the mistletoe. The snorkel parka head nods and as she grabs her coffee order she stands on tiptoe and gives me a sweet Christmas kiss. And then she’s gone into the snowy night.

The world didn’t end that Christmas but I did wind up spending Christmas Day at the old lady’s house. Turns out she had a granddaughter home from college and the granddaughter wasn’t bad looking and Grandma didn’t seem to mind that we spent the day fucking.

So we have to fast forward to the summer when Joe comes up and reminds me that employees are not supposed to get mail at the store then he hands me a package addressed to me care of Starbucks. Inside there’s a copy of Playboy all wrapped up with Christmas paper and inside the magazine is Iryna’s centerfold and she signed with a nice little sketch of a Christmas tree too. Whenever I read it I hear her Natasha accent in my head. “Dear Chicago Cowboy, You make good Peppermint Mocha. Also Eggnog Latte; also fuck good. Merry Christmas, Iryna.”


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