Christmas Frappe: How creamy can the holidays get?

How do you take your frappe? Creamy or covered in whipped cream—or both.

I hate Christmas. I know it's an unpopular sentiment but everything about the holiday season gets my back up. The decorations, the carolers, the chaos in the stores … and especially all the specialty drinks that start with pumpkin spice lattes in the fall and end with the sickening sweet peppermint candy mocha cappuccinos rampaging the coffee shops through the month of December.

I'm a traditionalist. I like my coffee black. Straight up. No sugar, no flavoring, no creamer, no fancy whipped milk, frothing up my lips. I like my coffee like I live my life. Nothing fancy. Just straight up honest work during the day and a tidy, organized space to come home to at night.

My roommate, Peter, after three years of living together knows to keep his crafting activities to the confines of his bedroom. After a long day of working outdoors, framing the latest spat of townhomes taking over the city, the last thing I need to come home to is a mountain of glitter.

I have a lighter side, of course. I enjoy a good comedian and a dinner out with someone special. Not that there has been anyone in a while. I've hit a bit of a dry spell on the dating front; the men on Grindr rarely holding my interest. I like to go out, enjoy the sights, but I'm also a bit of a homebody. Not many men are looking for that. Cuddling in front of the television watching a good movie doesn't always appeal. I refuse to compromise, though. It's what I'm looking for.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

The lineup in the local café is moving slower than usual. Brad, the barista, is being particularly chatty, taking time to wish everyone happy holidays. I pull my punch card with the café logo in the top left corner, from my wallet. I'm almost due for a free coffee. One stamp left to collect.

I've been coming to the same caffeine depot since I moved into my apartment three years back. Brad started working there about four months ago and has become a bit of a staple. He's working most days of my seven days per week coffee routine.

I fiddle with my bank card, tapping it on my thumbnail. I'm next in line.

"Good morning, Dan." A bright smile greets me as I approach the counter. "I'll grab you your coffee." I'm both pleased and embarrassed that Brad knows my order.

He glides effortlessly behind the counter, his ass peeking out from beneath the apron strings. High and round, two globes atop muscular legs. I roll my eyes and turn my attention to what's on offer in the baked goods display. Anything to keep from staring at him. Brad is nothing if not easy on the eyes. His young, toned body has a habit of warming me through.

"Are you sure you don't want any whipped cream or anything on that today? " Brad pushes my coffee across the counter toward me.

"I'm not into whipped cream." I check the lid to make sure it's pushed down on all sides.

"Never …" Brad tips his head to one side and smiles. "Because some people find that whipped cream has its time and place on more than coffee and hot chocolate."

I can't help but smirk. The reason I've been enjoying frequenting this particular coffee shop for the past four months. Brad never misses an opportunity to flirt with me. It's a great boost to the ego first thing in the morning. Tends to carry me through the day.

"I might make an exception for that."

Brad winks at me, slides the debit machine toward me, then stamps my punch card. "I knew there was an adventurous side in there somewhere."

The most I can manage is a grunt. I know my face has turned a multitude of shades of crimson. I snag my coffee and turn to leave.

"Happy holidays, Dan."

I try my best not to cringe.

Peter crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe to my bedroom. "It's not a Christmas party as such. Everyone has a few days off over the holidays so we're taking the opportunity to get a bunch of people together. I doubt Karen even has her house decorated. She's not the type."

I haul in a ragged breath. Peter has been harassing me for what seems like hours. I typically wouldn't let him wear me down but I'm feeling somewhat receptive. My Grindr date for the night canceled, leaving me at a loose end for the evening. Brad's flirting this morning has me feeling somewhat uninhibited. Certainly, feeling good about myself. I could use a night out.

"Fine …fine, I'll go."

Peter beams at me. "Sweet. I'll let Karen know."

Walking up to Karen's house, I start to second guess myself. Lights from inside the house are flooding the snow-covered shrubs beneath the windows, and the sound of music and loud, humming chatter is spilling out from within. There are a lot of people there.

Most of which, I probably don't know.

I follow Peter up the stairs and wait to be ushered inside. It's as I suspected. There's barely room to stand. People are crowding the living room, through the dining room, straight into the kitchen where people are bumping into each other as they try to prepare themselves a drink.

I edge my way in and set the bottle of Pinot Gris I've brought with me on the counter and go in search of a wine glass. As I reach for the upper shelf in the cupboard to remove a stemless glass, a hand placed on my lower back startles me.

"Fancy seeing you here."

I peer over my shoulder. The voice is familiar. It takes me a moment to place him, being that he is out of context. "Brad." I set the glass on the counter. "Hey. I didn't know you knew Karen."

Brad shakes his head. "I don't. A friend dragged me along."

"Yeah, me too."

"Tis the season." He smiles at me.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" I lift the bottle to show him, but spot he is holding a finger of scotch or some other mahogany-colored liquor in a crystal tumbler.

"Thanks." Brad lifts his glass. "I'm good."

I nod—at a loss for words. I've only ever spoken short snippets of sentences to Brad. 'Coffee—black'. 'Thank you'. 'See ya'. 'Have a good one'. Standard coffee ordering fare.

I take a moment to gaze over Brad's outfit. He looks different without his white button-down shirt, standard black slacks, and pine green apron.

He looks good—really good. Tight jeans, accentuating his lean thighs, silk, zigzag print top, open at the collar, exposing his smooth chest.

My cock takes notice.

Brad rocks onto one leg and leans against the counter. "Sorry about my whipped cream comment today." I look up in time to see Brad lick his lips. Pink and gorgeous, his tongue shimmering. I wonder if they taste like the liquor he is drinking. My mind takes me there.

My cock surges, pressing against the hard ridge of my jean's zipper.

"Um … yeah … no." I take a swig of my wine, fighting to control the direction my mind is taking me. "It was fine." Even Brad's hair looks different, his messy dark-blond mop, still shaggy but styled, emphasizing the streaks of near-white hair around his face.

I tip my glass to my lips and drain it. Brad's soulful brown eyes. I can imagine them peering up at me from beneath his ragged bangs, his slick pink lips encasing my cock.

Brad smiles and winks at me.

I nearly groan aloud.

"You know what I like about the holiday season?" Brad steps away from me and opens the fridge. "You can typically find …" He lifts a spray can of whipped cream from the fridge. My heart nearly stops at the sight of it in his hands.

Brad sets his glass down and tucks the whipped cream to his side and motions for me to follow him. My cock is on full alert now, throbbing, longing for what's potentially on offer.

My wine glass forgotten, I follow Brad from the kitchen, pushing my way through the crowd until I reach the guest bathroom. Brad is standing with the door half-open, waiting for me.

He tips his head back and licks his lips—slow and easy.

I'm there before I have a chance to think.

Brad slams the door and locks it once I'm inside, and pins me to the back of its surface, attacking my mouth. The door rattles behind me. Brad surging against me.

The whipped cream is sitting on the counter. I can spot it out of the corner of my eye, but my attention is on the man grasping my wrists and raising them above my head, his mouth feverishly tasting my throat. The pent-up aggression being released upon me is stunning.

I groan beneath his touch, my hips thrusting to contact his. He places a leg between mine and fulfills my need. I grind against him. He's hard—so incredibly hard. The obvious girth has my mouth watering. Each time we rock against one another, Brad hums across my skin.

"I wasn't sure," he whispers. "But I kept hinting …"

I grip the back of his head, a fistful of hair in my grasp, tipping his head back. The idea that Brad has been feeling me out for months drives me higher. It wasn't that I hadn't wanted him, I had, but I assumed he was out of my league; young hot guys didn't generally swipe right on me; a thirty-something construction worker.

I took his mouth, running my tongue along his, probing—tasting. A hint of scotch and peppermint consume me. I push him back against the counter, nearly folding him in half at the waist, his cock jamming against mine. I reach down and undo the buckle of his belt.

My fingers fumble but manage to slip the top button and relieve the pressure in Brad's jeans by unzipping him. He sighs soft—mewling against my lips. The band of his underwear brushes across the back of my hand as I slip down behind the fabric, my palm embracing the velvety-smooth shaft. A tickle of precum slicks up the inside of my wrist.

Brad grips my shoulders, holding on, as I tug him toward me time and again, his cock free from its confines, poised, seeping in the cool air. I drop to my knees and suck the plum-colored delicacy into my mouth, slicking up the head and shaft with my tongue, my hand cupping his balls, heaving on them each time I retreat with my lips. I spit on the tip and pump his cock with my hand, reveling in the freedom offered by his uncut cock.

He places his hands on my shoulders and puts pressure on me to stand. His mouth meets mine again, this time mixed with the taste of his cock on my lips. I thrust my tongue into his mouth, seeking to increase the desperation we are creating in one another. Brad's hands caress my back and end up on my ass, drawing me to him.

I lean further into him, chasing his mouth, his lips—his throat.

Brad's hands are busy, undoing and removing my pants. They pool around my feet on the bathroom mat. I nearly crumple when he starts shaking the whipped cream dispenser. A quick squirt and his mouth is full of the stuff. He kneels before me and encases my cock with his mouth, the whipped cream seeping out from all sides of his lips, dripping onto his shirt and the mat beneath his knees. My cock hits the back of his throat in one descent; then he retreats. He sinks onto my cock again, his nose buried in the brown curly hairs at the base.

He coughs and gags and looks up at me. Those brown eyes of his blinking and filling with tears. I brush my hands through his hair, taking two fistfuls, hauling him onto me. He grips onto my hips—swallowing and retreating on my cock; again and again, each time, barely coming up for air, the last of the whipped cream dribbling down his chin.

The mess is beautiful.

He rises to his feet, holds my cock in one hand, and draws a line of whipped cream from the base to the tip of my cock; the frothing sound of the canister breaking the silence in the room.

Brad turns to face the sink, leaning forward, and tips his ass out toward me. I squat behind him, my hands on his ass, my palms spreading his cheeks—thumbs caressing his hole.

I spit onto his opening then dive forward, running my tongue around the rim. I stretch him open further, using my thumbs to loosen the tension. My tongue dips into his warmth, poking—prodding; the whipped cream on my cock heating and running off onto the mat.

I reach down, grab my cock, and start stroking it in time to the thrusts of my tongue; each time dipping deeper and deeper into his hole. Changing gears, I release my cock and grab Brad's, pumping it by tugging down. My rings rap against the cabinet door. My hands are sticky and sweet-smelling from the residual whipped cream off my cock.

Running my mouth lower, I suck one of his balls into my mouth, savoring the salty taste and puckered texture of it; the tip of my nose gracing the edge of his hole. The musky scent of him fires up the months of lusting for him I've been guarding. I rise to my feet and grab the whipped cream canister, coating my cock in a copious, dripping amount of it.

I place my hand on the center of Brad's back and press my cock to his hole, the whipped cream coating the skin at the base of his spine. I push in past the initial pressure then slam home.

Brad grunts and swears as he grips the handles on the sink, his face nearly kissing the mirror.

He is watching me, his mouth slack—his eyes hungry.

"More," he whispers.

I oblige. I shake the canister in my hand, pushing his shirt up around his neck, exposing his back. I run a line of whipped cream from the base of his neck down his spine, and smear it with my free hand, coating his skin. I lean forward and lick a swath away.

Brad squirms and shivers beneath my touch.

"More," he whispers again. "Dan … more."

I withdraw my cock and coat it again, then slide home, half the cream ending up inside him, the other half dripping onto the pants around his ankles, soiling his underwear. I repeat the process, coating my cock, stuffing him with increasingly more cream.

My attention is captivated.

It oozes from his hole each time I retreat.

"Fuck …" It was an exclamation beneath my breath, but it came from deep within. The sight of Brad bent over the sink, liquified whipped cream dripping from his ass is almost too much.

I drive my cock back in, clinging desperately to him, my hands slick with cream, each slam of my hips against his ass jolting us both; the counter unforgiving.

Brad swears and shifts his weight, his hip bones taking a battering. He reaches back for my ass with one hand, urging me on, grunting and swearing each time I pound against him.

It is bliss.

The outside world becomes inconsequential. I know there were people crowded in the hallway outside the door to the bathroom, but I don't care if they can hear us.

I am focused on Brad, moaning—grunting, his ass full of whipped cream, his tongue darting in and out across his lips. His eyes watching me in that mirror.

I lock my gaze on his, my hips rock forward and up, nearly lifting him off his feet. I grab his thighs, tipping him forward, and drive into him hard. My cock surges; hungry for conquest and completion, thrusting into him. Slamming him against that counter, his eyes wild as he watches me. A brief lift of my balls and I spill into him, my fingers digging into his skin, leaving my mark; my cum mixing with the watery remnants of the whipped cream in his ass.

But I'm not done with him yet.

I withdraw and step back. "Hold your ass open for me."

Brad obeys.

And damn, it's a beautiful sight.

His hole red, puffy, and used.

"Show me what I've filled you with." I squat, my heart fluttering with anticipation. Brad's hole constricts then relaxes, then bulges outward, a thin stream of cum and whipped cream seeping out in a rivulet across his balls. It runs down the length of his still hard cock.

I reach for it, his cock, using the mixture of fluids to jack his shaft. He slips easily within my grasp. I lean forward and lick the head clean with my tongue.

Sweet, salty, and musky.

Brad gasps and reaches back for my head with one hand. He runs his fingers into my hair, grasping a handful.

I play my tongue over his slit then around the rim of his cock head. I suck it into my mouth. It too is sweet from the whipped cream—musky from my cum. Brad swears and grips tighter to my hair. My palm is caressing his shaft, yanking down, faster each time. Brad's thighs are quivering to each side of my head, his mouth open; the crown of my hair pressed against his ass, his cock, rigid, smooth—pulsing, pulled back between his legs.

"Oh … God … Dan."

Brad's hips rock forward against the countertop each time he crests, his hand slamming onto the mirror. I swallow every glorious drop; his cock shooting cum to the very back of my throat.

I rise to my feet. A smeary hand mark now mars the smooth surface above the sink. Brad hauls himself away. A thick red, indented crease is pressed into the flesh of his hips, his hair tousled, lips puffy and red; his ass leaking a thin line of fluid down his inner thigh.

He looks gorgeous.

Brad shuffles toward me and grips my face with one hand. "So … what's your latest view of whipped cream?"

I kiss him then smirk. "I will never look at a frappe the same way again."

And I wouldn't. Every once in a while, when I head into the café for coffee, I have Brad load me up with a topping of whipped cream. That and the wink he gives me make my day.

And I have never looked at the holiday season the same way again.

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CHRISTMAS FRAPPE; Copyright © 2021 by Gavin E. Black.

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