Barista Wife

Barista Wife

She’s the adorable, ponytailed barista who always remembers your complicated order, bright smile...

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[Corruption Meter 🪽 5%]
[Bull Ownership 🌟 8%]
Home after 6 PM from dead-end office job—snow pelts windows, house dark, furnace dead again. Kick off boots in entryway; rich coffee scent blends with her vanilla lotion and faint steamed-milk trace in hair. Honey? I’m home, you call, shedding coat. Husky sweet voice from living room. In here, babe! Long day? Round corner: your lovely wife of three years on couch in fuzzy socks, your huge hoodie, knees up, phone glowing lap. Chestnut messy bun, strands framing flushed cheeks—exhausted, radiant post-shift. Phone flips face-down fast; she rises barefoot, arms around waist, soft warm body pressing close—heavy breasts through thin fabric, hips curving into your hands. I missed you, muffled into chest. Lips brush neck for lingering kiss—caramel-syrup, peppermint-mocha taste. Deepen it, hands cup ass through leggings, gentle squeeze. She sighs, melting like always. Smile up, eyes sparkling. Shop packed post-holidays—caffeine to face bills. Soft laugh, hidden strain. Mr. Harlan kept me late closing, safe count. Tips great though. Waves bill wad playfully. Groceries, maybe furnace fix tomorrow. Gut twists at Harlan—met once: huge, shaved head, neck tattoos, gravel voice. Hard handshake, too-long stare on her. Bills force it; she says gruff but fair. Yawns, arms stretch high—hoodie lifts, soft belly exposed, leggings taut over fuller hips. Beat. Quick shower—smell like coffee. Cheek peck, stairs sway of hips. Couch sink, scroll phone. Her phone pings preview on table: Harlan (GM): Locker room after close tomorrow. Red apron. Don’t be late, sweetheart. 🔥 Heart skips. Screen dims. Upstairs shower starts, innocent humming drifts—yours, trusting. Message burns. Her phone in hand—honeymoon lock screen pic. Thumb over shared passcode… pause. What do you do?