This Pumpkin Spice Latte Gets Me Off In A Fun And Sincere Way Because It’s Okay For People To Enjoy Popular Things Without Being Shamed For The Perceived “Basicness” Of Their Beverage Choices

Bobbi’s searching for inspiration at the local chocolate milk shop, heading out to cook up a few new short story ideas with a friend. Unfortunately, this typically productive location has become quite distracting thanks to the seasonal arrival of pumpkin spice lattes, which Bobbi despises.

Hoping to seem cool and counteract the extreme basicness of this situation, Bobbi orders a cup of rock milk, but when she spots author Chuck Tingle at one of the café tables, Bobbi starts to wonder if rock milk was the way to go. After all, what’s so bad about people finding a little joy in a seasonal beverage?

Now Bobbi is wrapped up in a pumpkin spice experience of her own, culminating with a hardcore lesbian encounter that proves it’s okay to have a little fun sometimes.

This erotic tale is 4,100 words of sizzling human on sentient fall beverage action and lesbian pumpkin spice latte love.

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THIS PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE GETS ME OFF IN A FUN AND SINCERE WAY BECAUSE IT’S OKAY FOR PEOPLE TO ENJOY POPULAR THINGS WITHOUT BEING SHAMED FOR THE PERCEIVED “BASICNESS” OF THEIR BEVERAGE CHOICES

By Chuck Tingle

Creating art is a noble, deeply fulfilling thing to do with your life. On our best days, artists can find ourselves tapping into a mighty force well beyond the limits of this reality, reaching past the surface world and tugging on some grand cosmic thread. An effective piece of art can say things that words never could, and I’m thankful to wield this power on rare occasions.

Most of the time, however, it’s utterly draining. Even the good art can take a lot out of you, dragging along like dead weight through some hellish nightmare until finally, at long last, you birth your art into the world.

The bad stuff can be equally grueling, and the only difference is that once you’ve had a chance to step back and look at what you’ve made, you’re flooded with disappointment.

The worst is not the bad art, nor the good art (which doesn’t really exist anyway, but that’s a conversation for another day.) It’s the art that never gets made; the stuff that never exists in the first place.

This is precisely the battle I’m waging today, and it’s one with very few practical solutions. Writer’s block is an insidious thing, because ideas cannot be forced into existence. There are plenty of problems that can be solved with brute force, pushing through your exhaustion or putting in the necessary practice, but not writer’s block.

I’m a short story writer, releasing my science fiction online and slowly building a community of rabid fans. Because my pieces are all relatively small, consistent output is paramount, and usually I’m able to keep up with the hearty pace of my intended release schedule. When I don’t keep up, however, my anxiety starts to build, and let’s just say I’m feeling pretty damn anxious these days.

Fortunately, writer’s block isn’t impossible to beat, and while the methods of getting over it are inconsistent, they still exist.

I usually write better with a friend by my side, and most of my productive days take place in a chocolate milk shop. With that in mind, I’ve decided to combine the two practices, enlisting my friend Morgan and strolling over our local café here on the north side of Billings.

It’s a beautiful day, which is a great start, and as we stroll through the warm morning sunlight I find a distinct confidence brewing within me. I don’t have my next great idea just yet, but I get the feeling one is simmering just below the surface of my conscious mind, waiting to emerge.

“What are you working on today?” I ask, turning to my friend as we continue down the sidewalk towards our destination. “Got any good poem ideas.”

“I think so,” Morgan states in return, a genuine confidence on her face. “It’s tough looking at weather like this and not finding something genuine to say about it.”

I crumple my nose a bit, the word “genuine” rattling me for a moment.

“What?” my friend counters. She knows exactly what my expression means, but is so put off by it that she’s forcing me to state my case out loud.

“You’re making art, not selling cookies,” I state. “Sunshine and rainbows is a toy commercial. You need to put a little more darkness and satire and irony into your art if you want people to pay attention.”

Morgan considers this a moment, then shrugs. “Maybe you’re right,” my friend states, “but I don’t really care about that. I’ll make what I want to make.”

It’s not long before we round the corner and spot Borson’s Milk halfway down the block. The shop has a cozy, low-key vibe, but it’s relatively bustling for a weekday. Customers are pushing in and out through the main doors, a sight that immediately gives me pause.

Has this place gotten too popular? This used to be the coolest chocolate milk spot in town, all of the greatest artists of Billings posting up here at the various tables to work on their masterpieces.

As if to prove my point, I catch sight of someone walking towards me with a pumpkin spice latte in their hands. They’re bundled up tight with their fall clothing, the first sign that this routine season change is upon us.

The woman and her pumpkin spice latte strolls past, but it’s difficult to shake her sheer basicness from my mind.

“This place has really gone downhill,” I announce, more to myself than to anyone else.

We arrive at Borson’s and head inside, immediately greeted by the glorious scent of fresh chocolate milk. Many of the tables are full, but there’s a few spots left for Morgan and me.

The line is short, and soon enough we’re standing before the front counter, a huge  wall of drink options hanging before us.

“What’ll it be today?” asks the barista, smiling warmly.

“Just a two percent chocolate milk,” Morgan states, a classic order if I’ve ever heard one.

The barista nods, then turns his attention to me. “And for you?”

My first instinct is to follow in Morgan’s footsteps, but before I can get out my order something stops me in my tracks.

There are other customers behind us, this conversation well within earshot of the rest of the line.. Making a classic order is fine, but if I continue down this path then I’ll feel like the cosmic balance is off. There are dozens of people in here holding their warm pumpkin spice lattes, and while my easiest method of protest is to simply not order one, I’m worried that might be a lukewarm response.

It’s not enough to ignore this impending seasonal tide of pumpkin spice, I need to take a stand against it. I need to order the coolest, hippest, most unbasic order there is.

“Hello?” comes the voice of the barista, pulling me out of a deep trace. “What can I get started for you?”

“Oh,” I blurt, struggling to center myself and make a decision. “Uh, I’ll take a rock milk.”

The barista hesitates, raising a subtle eyebrow.

“Rock milk?” he repeats back to me, checking to make sure he heard correctly.

I nod. “It’s a very unique drink,” I explain. “Only the coolest, hippest people order it. It’s like almond milk, but instead of almonds, it’s rocks.”

“I’m afraid we don’t carry rock milk here,” the barista explains, genuinely apologetic.

“You sure?” I continue, hitching a thumb back over my shoulder. “I saw some outside.”

The barista leans over a bit, gazing past me and into the parking lot. “You mean like… gravel?”

“You say gravel, I say rock milk,” I reply. “I’ll take one of those.”

The barista reluctantly punches in my order, then calls back over her shoulder. “One grande two percent chocolate milk, and one grande… rock milk.” She turns her attention back to me. “Name?”

“Bobbi,” I reply.

Morgan and me leave the counter and start making our way through the café, eyes hunting for the best open table. There’s a place to sit by the window that immediately catches my eye, and the two of us make our way towards it. Before we have time to reach our destination, however, something else catches my eye.

Tucked away in the corner of the room is an unexpected, but instantly recognizable figure.

“Oh my God!” I blurt, my words nestled somewhere between a whisper and a shout. “Is that Chuck Tingle?”

Morgan stops next to me, nodding silently.

Chuck sits alone, a laptop sitting before him as he pounds away at the keys. I can barely see his screen, but from what I can see there are tiny black words working their way across a stark white page. He’s clad in a well-tailored suit, the fabric a unique but stylish crosshatch of pink and grey. Atop his head sits a brilliant pink bag, the words ‘love is real’ scrawled across his forehead.

Chuck is a prolific author of horror and erotica, specializing in satirical takes on current events. His work is incredible, a huge inspiration for my own writing.

My voice immediately drops to a hushed tone. “What do you think he’s working on?” I ask. “A takedown of other writers who work in chocolate milk shops?”

“I mean he’s a writer in a chocolate milk shop,” Morgan points out. “I doubt he’s writing about himself.”

My eyes suddenly go wide as a breath catches in my throat. “What if he is writing about himself?” I question. “Chuck breaks the forth wall all the time.”

“What if we’re in a tingler right now?” Morgan continues, clearly joking.

I freeze immediately. Morgan may think this is a ridiculous theory, but I’m not so sure. “It’s possible,” I admit. “There’s a few tinglers about dealing with writer’s block. Hell, Harriet Porber is about writer’s block. If we’re inside a tingler right now, that means he’s probably here to help me.”

Morgan nods along, actually buying into this idea.

“Should I go talk to him?” I question.

My friend nods. “I mean, what do you have to lose?”

“Well, my idol could hate me for interrupting his train of thought,” I counter.

“I don’t think Chuck is the type,” Morgan says, a deeply reassuring thought.

I take a moment to collect myself and then leave my friend’s side, strolling over to Chuck Tingle with as much confidence as I can muster. I suddenly realize that I’m shaking, the tension within my body finally manifesting as a nervous rattle.

I step up to the masked author, prompting the man to finally glance up from his keyboard. Chuck smiles through the small hole around his exposed mouth and lips, the only hint of emotion behind the dark sunglasses that cover his eyes and the bright pink fabric that hides the rest of his face.

Regardless, I’m immediately soothed by the author’s calming aura.

“Uh… hi,” I start. “Are you Chuck Tingle?”

Chuck laughs. “I hope so, don’t want a dang reverse twin running around in my place.”

“Does… does that mean we’re all in a Chuck Tingle book?” I ask.

Chuck hesitates, then finally replies in a playful, mischievous tone. “Maybe.”

Another surge of excitement pulses through my body. I can’t hold back any longer, pulling out the chair across from chuck and dropping into this seat. “What’s the book about?”

“Pumpkin spice lattes and the people who drink them,” Chuck replies.

I give my hands a single, loud clap. “Yes! I can’t wait for you to tear those scoundrels apart with your snark and wit!”

Chuck shakes his head. “That’s not exactly the message of this one,” he replies, then shifts gears a bit. “Am I really that dang snarky? I don’t feel snarky.”

“Oh, you’re the king of snark,” I reply, pumping him up. “You’re drenched in irony. Like, nobody could possibly enjoy your crazy stories, but you keep writing them! It’s so cool!”

Chuck sits back in his chair a bit, settling in. “Listen bud, I’m so glad you’ve found joy in my books. At the end of the day, that’s all that matters, but I think you should know that I’m not being ironic at all. I’m not looking to create bad vibes, or mount a verbal takedown of anyone. I talk about devils sometimes, but really only the devils who intentionally hurt people. I’m just talkin’ on the way they make me feel and expressing myself. This is all very sincere.”

His response isn’t at all what I expected, and the stark earnestness of the author’s tone has knocked me off balance a bit. I sit in silence for an excruciatingly long time, scrambling for some other way to connect.

“I have writer’s block,” I suddenly blurt, my tone a little too loud and awkward. “I wanted to come and get some advice.”

Chuck nods, thinking about this for a moment. “Well, are you trying to write from a place of love?” he asks.

“Of course!” I reply.

“Really?” the author continues skeptically.

Our conversation is suddenly interrupted by Morgan placing my drink on the table, then nodding to Chuck and taking her own beverage back to her spot in the corner. I’d been so wrapped up in this conversation that I hadn’t even heard the barista shout my name.

“You sure you’re writing from a place of love, and not spite?” Chuck questions.

Instead of answering, my gaze slowly lowers to the cup that rests directly before me. It’s full of gravel from the parking lot—just like I asked.

I let out a long sigh. “Actually, you’re right. I’ve been so caught up in writing something ironic and cool that I didn’t even consider other perspectives. I literally just ordered rocks to protest pumpkin spice lattes.”

“What’s wrong with pumpkin spice lattes?” Chuck questions.

“Do you drink them?” I cautiously reply, worried I’ve offended him.

The author shakes his head. “No. Do you?”

I shake my head in turn.

“Well, maybe you should try it,” Chuck suggests. “You might like the taste, or you might not. That’s not really the point, buckaroo. The point is: just because something is popular, that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Sometimes folks want a cozy, familiar drink. What’s the problem with letting them have a little joy in their lives?”

I let out a long sigh and stand up from my chair. “You’re right. I’m gonna go make a new order.”

I turn around and stroll back to the counter, waiting in a short line before eventually arriving at the same barista that helped me earlier.

“What else can I get for you?” the barista questions.

“Pumpkin spice latte,” I reply.

“You want that traditional style or Tingleverse style?” he continues.

The question takes me off guard. I’ve never been asked this before. “What’s the difference?”

“One of them is mindless. The other becomes sentient and fucks you,” my barista explains.

“Oh,” I blurt, flushing red. “Uh… well, I have been under a lot of pressure lately.”

“Tingleverse style it is,” the barista replies joyfully.

I pay for my drink, then stand awkwardly at the counter for a moment. “So what do I do kn-” I start to ask, but before I can finish my question I’m interrupted by an unexpected voice.

“Hey!,” the voice chirps. “Are you the one who ordered a pumpkin spice latte?”

I turn to find a gorgeous beverage standing before me. She’s not my usual type, but I can’t deny the erotic charge that her presence brings.

The rest of the café hear every word of her introduction—suddenly made aware of my incredibly basic order—and for a moment I catch a suffocating wave of self-consciousness washing over me. Before this wave can swell and crest, however, I cut it short. I heed Chuck’s advice and remind myself that it’s okay to find joy in things.

“Yeah, I’m Bobbi,” I loudly admit. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Lena,” the sentient beverage replies. “You’re cute.”
 I blush again, only this time the self-consciousness is nowhere to be found. I’m getting turned on.

“Come with me,” Lena continues, taking me by the hand and leading me through the chocolate milk shop. We reach a door next to the restrooms, pushing through to find ourselves in a completely empty section of the shop. It’s just as well kept as the main room, complete with the same tables and chairs and the faint scent of chocolate milk, pumpkin spice, and coffee beans.

“This is the VIP section,” the beverage explains. “It’s just for the living drinks.”

“Oh, should I leave?” I ask.

Lena turns to face me, a mischievous smile on her face. “I can bring a guest in here if I really like them,” she explains. “Or if they really like me. Do you like the way I taste, Bobbi?”

“I’m—I’m not sure,” I stammer.

“Let’s find out then,” the sentient pumpkin spice latte replies.

Lena suddenly pulls me close and kisses me deeply on the lips, our bodies meeting in a carnal eruption of passion. The next thing I know we’re making out wildly, passion surging as I lose myself in this moment. Any care of whether or not my order is cool enough melts away, now focusing on the pleasure that moves back and forth between us.

My hands begin to work their way across the form of my pumpkin spice lover, starting at the rounded lip of her cup and then slowly working their way down. I’m hungry for more, but I somehow manage to take my time and appreciate this process. Gradually, my hands drift lower and lower, her perfectly sculpted topography revealing itself to my fingertips. I caress her breasts for a moment, then move onward as the tension builds.

It’s not long until I’m hovering just above Lena’s waistline, teasing her with the promise of something more. I can tell she’s aching for my touch, her hips pushing towards me as a soft moan escapes her lips.

“Please,” the sentient pumpkin spice latte whispers, her words barely audible as her lips draw closer to my ears. The sound itself sends a mighty chill down my spine, driving me onward, and soon enough I provide her sweet relief by dropping my attention a little lower.

My fingers slip across Lena’s waiting pussy, this simple movement eliciting yet another sigh.

Our bodies push even tighter against one another as my hand continues to pump. I start slowly at first, using just enough pressure, then gradually build both speed and firmness. Soon enough, the two of us fall into a rhythm with one another, reading each other’s movements as we establish a natural flow.

I can tell she’s enjoying herself, and my technique clearly works on both humans and sentient beverages. Still, I’m craving more.

Without warning I drop to my knees, gazing up at Lena as I continue rubbing her clit. I hesitate only briefly, flashing a smile and offering up a playful wink, then dive in to lap away at her pussy.

A mighty taste immediately greets my tongue, and to my amazement I’m swept away by just how good this pumpkin spice flavor really is. It’s sweet and earthy, and while I wouldn’t order it every season, I can see why so many folks have made it part of their fall ritual.

Not only is pumpkin spice “not that bad,” it’s actually pretty satisfying.

I’ll admit that my oral technique is questionable at first, the hunger taking hold as I frantically drag my tongue across Lena’s pussy, but soon enough I settle in and start working her with an attentive diligence. I focus on the sentient beverage’s clit, taking note of her subtle reactions and falling into the pace of my hand that came before.

The pumpkin spice latte begins to moan and whimper as she pushes back against me. I can feel her stomach muscles clench and release, the first hints of an impending climax working their way through her system. Lena is struggling to pace herself, the sensations within her gradually untethering from conscious control.

“Oh fuck, that’s so good,” she sighs, then repeats the phrase again with slightly more gusto. “Oh fuck, that’s so fucking good!”

The beverage is quaking now, unable to hold back the potent sensations that flow through her body. It’s here that the levee finally breaks, and suddenly Lena is buckling forward as a surge of orgasmic sensation rocks her frame.

“I’m cumming!” the pumpkin spice latte shrieks, completely losing herself in the moment.

I keep the pace with my tongue and fingers, carrying Lena through this moment of release from beginning to end. Her glorious flavors flood my tastebuds, and I appreciate every bit of her complexity.

When Lena finally finishes she staggers back a bit, trying to gather her bearings.

“That was amazing,” she gushes. “Now it’s your turn.”
 “Oh!” I blurt. I’d been so caught up in offering pleasure to this beautiful beverage that I’d completely forgotten about my own.

The sentient pumpkin spice latte floats down into position before me, gently pushing me back so that I’m laying out on the floor. She hovers over me, returning to the passionate make-out session that started our journey. This time, however, we’ve gone horizontal, which makes it even easier for Lena to maneuver down my form. Her lips leave mine, kissing gently across my neck and collarbones, then down over my breasts and stomach.

Unlike me, Lena doesn’t hesitate before diving in. The tension is still blooming between us, but we’re too ravenous to let it sit any longer.

The pumpkin spice latte begins to lick my pussy, her technique very specific. Instead of moving her tongue up and down across my clit, she works me in firm, steady circles. There’s a warmth to her touch, a feeling that only comes from the intimacy of a warm beverage on a fall day.

“Yes, that’s it,” I sigh, arching my back as the pleasure washes over me. I shut my eyes tight, focusing on the feelings that spill across my body and nothing else. The sensation begins at the pit of my stomach and then creeps its away across my form, blooming like a flower. Soon enough, it’s moving down my arms and legs, taking over every inch of me with its erotic hum.

Without thinking, I reach down and place my hands against the back of Lena’s head, pulling her even closer. She’s lapping even deeper now, taking me to the next level, then the next.

“Oh my god,” I sigh. “I think I’m gonna… I think I’m gonna…”

I can barely get the words out, my focus scattered and my handle of complex language struggling to keep up. It’s in this moment that any control I once had slips away, a mighty orgasm ripping through my body.

“I’m gonna cum!” I finally erupt, throwing my head back and emitting a frantic, unbridled scream that floods the back room.

I quake hard, my whole frame overwhelmed with pleasure as Lena laps even harder against my clit. I can feel every muscle clench and release in powerful waves, a whole tide sweeping me away.

When the orgasm finally ends I fall back in a state of utter exhaustion, struggling to catch my breath. Every nerve in tingling, satisfied in a way that’s both sexual, and spiritual.

I’ve been holding onto something, and whatever it was has finally been released.

The living pumpkin spice latte settles in next to me, basking in the same blissed out afterglow.

“That was incredible,” I tell her.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Lena replies.

I hesitate, not sure if I should speak the thoughts that are silently bouncing around in my head.

This isn’t a place for fear, though, and I know this. A hidden door has opened somewhere within my soul, and I refuse to turn back.

“You really helped me,” I finally admit. “I was looking for something to be bitter about. I got so caught up in creating this specific perspective for myself that I forget the value of a little sweetness.”

“It’s okay to be bitter,” my beverage offers. “We all have our feelings and preferences and ideas and thoughts, and that’s okay. Well, sometimes it’s not okay. If someone’s being a hateful bigot then tell them to go fuck themselves, but when it comes to something like chocolate milk or coffee preference…”

She trails off, waiting for me to finish the thought.

“It’s okay to let people do their thing,” I state, nodding along.

“Exactly,” Lena confirms. “It’s okay to let other folks have their moment of joy.”

I smile, letting this sink in. “You know what brings me joy?” I ask, then quickly answer my own question. “Writing.”

“Oh yeah?” Lena replies. “What are you working on?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea for a story,” I state. “It’s an erotic science-fiction piece about a beautiful pumpkin spice latte. Some people might find it a little strange, but that’s okay. It brings me joy.”