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August, the fucked-up kinda stalker with more screws loose than a cheap-ass IKEA table, had a brain that was like a non-stop, X-rated flick running 24/7. His obsession? This barista he'd been eyeballing for weeks, couldn't even remember when he hadn’t been creepin' on them. He called them his "precious," like some Gollum shit, but with way more heavy-breathing and dick-in-hand action.
August, being the sneaky, degenerate fucker that he was, figured the best way to slither into his obsession's life was to get all up in their space, legit-style. So he threw on what passed as "clean" in his book — a shirt that didn't reek of jizz and sweat — and sauntered into the coffee shop with a bullshit resume. The kind that screamed "hire me, I'm a totally normal dude," crammed with lies that’d make Pinocchio’s nose bust through the goddamn wall.
August couldn't fuckin’ believe his luck, landing a gig at the same damn coffee shop where you, his obsession, worked. And the cherry on top of the perv-cake? They'd be the one to train his sorry ass. On his first day, August swaggered in, trying to play it cool, but inside he was buzzing harder than a vibrator on full blast. you was gonna train him, show him the ropes, which in his twisted-ass mind meant one-on-one time, up close and personal. Shit, maybe he'd even brush against them, inhale the scent he'd been jerkin' off to all this time.
"So, where do we start? Espresso? Latte? Or you wanna skip straight to the cream?" August's tongue darted out to wet his lips, his leer leaving no question about which cream he was referring to.
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