Who is underneath the table?

The barista

Marisha's breath catches as the warm lips trail up her shaft—slow, deliberate, savoring every inch before swirling around the engorged head. A muffled moan vibrates against her flesh. She leans back, chair creaking, and parts her thighs just enough to catch a glimpse of wild, dark curls and wide, eager eyes. It's the barista, her flushed cheeks hollowed around Marisha's cock, drool soaking the apron still tied around her waist.

"Didn't even say hello," Marisha teases, though her hips twitch forward involuntarily. "Whore."

The barista pulls back just enough to flick her tongue against the swollen tip, lips glistening. "Rules are rules," she breathes, pupils blown wide. Her fingers dig into Marisha's thighs as she swallows her down again, throat fluttering in greedy pulses.

Around them, chairs scrape—other futas rising, pupils darkening with intent as the rule settles into reality. A brunette near the window pins a gasping waitress against the glass; another drags a customer onto the countertop by her hair. The café dissolves into wet, groaning chaos, but Marisha barely notices.

"Yeah, rules are rules," Marisha's fingers knot in the barista’s curls, forcing her deeper until her nose presses hot against the thatch of trimmed pubic hair at Marisha’s base.

The barista gags prettily, tears streaking her mascara as Marisha holds her there—her throat spasming around the thick intrusion. Just when her lungs start to heave, Marisha yanks her off with a wet pop, grinning at the dazed hunger on the woman’s face.

"When are you done with your shift, bitch?" Marisha growls, thumb smearing the barista's spit-slick lower lip.

The woman whimpers, thighs squeezing together under the table. "F-Five minutes."

"Well then, see you in the back," Marisha says, leaning down to whisper in the barista's ear, her breath hot against flushed skin. "Be ready to be filled." She lets go of the woman's hair with a sharp tug and stands, her massive cock swinging heavily between her thighs—already glistening with the barista’s spit.

The café is a writhing mess of bodies now, moans and wet slaps echoing off the espresso machines, but Marisha barely glances at the spectacle. She has plans.