Melanie closed her umbrella as she stepped into the back entrance of the coffee shop where she worked, placing it into the narrow can near the door where someone who worked there insisted it was a trash can and kept spitting their gum into it. Judging from the pink wad she extracted from the can last time, it was a coworker who still chewed bubblegum. She wanted to write “this is not a trash can!” on a piece of paper and tape it to the can, but then she’d be the assistant manager who wrote passive-aggressive notes to her co-workers and subordinates.

Melanie hoped she wasn’t already at that state of her career at the tender age of twenty-two. Her mom warned her to finish high school and get a degree so she wouldn’t get stuck at the coffee shop forever. Her beautifully framed degree now sat in her closet, where it would stay until she got out of the rut she’d dug herself with thousands of dollars of student loan debt.

She flipped on the lights in the back room, satisfied that it looked like it had been cleaned. Melanie patted the breast pocket to make sure she hadn’t left her pencil at home. She spun around to the cork board to look at the schedule and the roles assigned for her today.

And Melanie groaned and rested her forehead against the cork.

There was a knock at the door, shaking Melanie briefly from her disappointment. She went to the back door and opened it. It was Vanna, with her dark hair and trench coat over the uniform polo and her own skirt.

“Hey, Melanie.” Said Vanna, stepping inside and lowering the fashion magazine she’d used to shield her from the rain. Melanie had always thought Vanna was prettier than any of the dead-eyed, doll-like women they put on the cover of those things.

Vanna appropriately threw the water-damaged magazine into the trash. “You… get wet?” She asked, pointing with a painted nail. “Your hair…”

“No, I walked here.” Melanie shrugged. “And a car drove by, so I held the umbrella sideways so he wouldn’t splash me, but I was under some corner of a building where the water was just pouring off, so I got soaked.” She shivered a bit. “I would dry it off with the paper towels, but last time, I had lint in my hair all day.”

“I didn’t know you walked here.” Vanna said, taking her trench coat off and folding it over her elbow. “Where do you live? I could… pick you up.”

“Thank you, Vanna, but it’s not that far.” Melanie said. “Maybe the next time it rains, or in the winter.”

“Who do we work with today?” Vanna looked at the schedule. “Zelda, Connie… that’s a good team.”

“Connie will probably be a few minutes late.” Melanie said. “But whatever. She’s on Connie Time. If she’s always late by the same amount, we can manage. If she starts showing up even later, that could be a problem.”

“Did Annie… lose her job finally?”

“No, I think she got suspended.” Melanie said. “Haven’t talked to Patti yet. But it says Annie’s working Saturday.”

“La vache!” Vanna growled. “So am I!”

“Maybe she just won’t show up.”

A knock at the door, followed by a holler through it. “Let us in!”

Melanie opened the door to be rushed past by Connie and Zelda. Connie was a tall and athletic woman with smooth caramel colored skin and short, straight black hair styled into a windblown hairdo. Zelda was a petite Japanese-American, almost a foot shorter than Connie, with her hair tied into a ponytail with a blue ribbon tied into a bow.

“Hey, Mel.” Connie said. “What’d we get today?” She went directly for the cork board to see what she’d been assigned for that day. Connie threw her fists into the air, narrowly missing Zelda’s face. “Coconut!” She cheered. “I get the easy one.”

“Ughhh…” Vanna made her best ‘echh’ sound. “I got French vanilla again! I swear, Patti is prejudiced against me or something.”

“I got Hazelnut, so I guess that means you’re Caramel today, Melanie?” Said Zelda. “Unless we’re doing something weird.”

“Yeah…” Melanie said. “If she wants me doing Caramel, I hope she’s fine doing everything in the office today, because… every time I do Caramel, I’m out of the office for like four hours at a time.”

The quartet of women walked through the back room and into the dressing room, Melanie retrieving a shrink-wrapped package before leaving the back room. The package contained six small cone-shaped objects with a slim neck below the wider part of the cone, leading to a wide flat flange of a much brighter color. The six objects were all slightly different colors, but were all dark and shiny like fancy glass.

The numbers on most of the lockers had worn off or been pried off by vandal employees long ago. But the ladies all knew which lockers they used by their locks. They took off their coats, wearing the same dark pink polo with the all-important breast pocket. When inside, Vanna hung her coat on a hangar, and Melanie balled her damp sweatshirt up and tossed it into her locker. Even if it was still wet when she took it out, she just couldn’t be bothered to hang it properly.

Then, they all started to strip. All the women took off their skirts, or in the case of Connie, her jean shorts.

“Ooh, those panties are cute.” Connie pointed to Zelda’s little baby blue underwear. “Where’d you get them?”

Zelda turned towards Connie, slipped both thumbs into the thin hip straps and pulled them down to her ankles, unveiling her thick cock, hanging to her knees. For a shorty like Zelda, that wasn’t much of an achievement, but it was still a pleasing sight.

“Target.” Zelda answered, the hand holding the garment coming to her hip, the slight sway in her hip gave her schlong a small wag.

“They sell futa undies at Target now?” Melanie asked, slipping her own panties off and unveiling her own mighty prick. “I need to go back there. Why can’t Victoria’s Secret get with the times?”

Connie and Vanna has stripped off their underwear, too. They too were hanging free, Vanna hanging lowest of all. Melanie had always assumed it was all that French food.

The four of them hung their panties by a leg hole on a small coat rack screwed into the drywall of the locker room. Melanie opened a laundry bag held in one of the lockers and pulled out the uniform skirts.

“Coconut…” She said, handing Connie her skirt for the day. She connected it behind her back. Someone who hadn’t been to this coffee shop before might wonder why the clientele all wore such short skirts, especially when one considers it doesn’t even come close to covering the barista’s schlongs. The ‘skirt’ was basically a ribbon of pleated fabric about four inches wide, too wide to be a belt, but too short to be a proper skirt. The garment was a dark brown with long strips of white over it like sprinkles, indicating her assigned flavor.

Melanie kept the Caramel color for herself and handed Zelda the Hazelnut skirt, which was tinted almost orange to make it distinct from the other shades of brown. Vanna got her French Vanilla skirt, an off-white that bordered on yellow.

Hooking the skirt in front of her, Melanie then rotated the skirt so the clasp was behind her. She wasn’t quite dexterous to do it behind her back. Melanie took hold of the corner of the plastic package and ripped the bag open, letting air into the six separated compartments in the bag. She could tell them apart by the faint difference in color, so she handed a brown one to Connie.

The object had a faintly tacky feel, like a moistened lollipop. Holding these things really was gross, so Connie wanted to get it out of her hands as soon as possible. Thus, she did what she always did. She placed the pointed end between her butt cheeks and slid the device up her ass until only the flange was visible, like a pea thrown into cleavage by a flirty and immature diner.

The effect of the device was felt immediately, as a tingle danced through Connie’s lower body, feeling the device release its energy. Connie always thought it felt like Vap-O-Rub, waking up the internal tissues and feeling the osmotic forces deliver some uncertain energy or chemicals into her prostate.

Another effect was obvious to them all, as Connie’s hanging cock grew stiff in a matter of seconds, twitching with every heartbeat. Anyone questioning why the skirts were so short would now have their answer.

Melanie handed one to Vanna, an unappetizing gray one. Luckily, it wasn’t meant to be eaten, and Vanna stuffed it up her ass with relative ease.

“Are they bigger than normal?” Connie asked Vanna. “It feels bigger.”

Vanna held her eyes closed as she adjusted to the rush the device was delivering into her system. Her

cock hardened and her scrotum tightened, and Vanna stretched the skin out gently with her hand.

Melanie faltered as she reached for Zelda’s, trying not to stare at Vanna. Melanie grew hard slowly, and without the aid of anything in her bum. It was a little embarrassing. She handed Zelda her device, a tan-brown color, and she put it where it belonged. The tingling sensation hit her, and Zelda grew erect very quickly.

“My turn.” Melanie took out the device she had been assigned today and slid it into her rear. She might not be able to hook the skirt behind her back, but this she could do by herself. She felt the tingly rush she was familiar with from the implant, her heartbeat quickening and her mind waking… and of course, her cock throbbing like a stubbed toe.

“I swear…” Vanna looked herself in the mirror, assessing if her makeup had been disrupted by the rain. “Why do I always get stuck with French Vanilla just because I’m French? I think Patti’s racist or something.”

“Maybe you should talk to her or something.” Said Zelda, looking out the door.

“I will, once I see her.” Vanna turned away from the mirror and saw Patti standing in the doorway. Patti was in her thirties, with gentle bags under her eyes that never seemed to go away, no matter how much coffee she drank. She wore a black blazer with a red top that stretched over her curvy figure and matching skirt.

“Hello, Vanna, everyone.” Said Patti.

“Oh, there you are.” Vanna said, brushing her hair over her shoulder with her hand. She was not intimidated. “Patti, why do I always get stuck with French Vanilla? It’s like, every time!”

“It’s not every time, I assure you.” Patti said, folding her hands together. “I try to rotate who has what flavor, but not everyone can work the same days. It’s a difficult balancing act, but I actually have a set of shot glasses at my desk. I put a colored marble in each glass for what flavor you all are assigned for the day. I don’t repeat one unless I empty the glass, and I try not to do that unless there are at least three in there. It’s sort of like making the match-ups for a basketball bracket, and I know how much you love basketball.”

“It’s true.” Vanna nodded.

“I’ve also looked at sales,” Patti continued. “And when you’re French Vanilla, we sell twice as much French Vanilla. The customers love getting French Vanilla from you because of your accent… and I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that you’re the only one of us longer than twelve inches.”

Vanna chuckled as Patti stroked her finger on the underside of Vanna’s cock as casually as one would touch the shoulder of a coworker.

“I swear I don’t assign you to French Vanilla more than the others on purpose. I try to keep you all moving around so you don’t do the same thing too often.” Patti explained. “I know French Vanilla is harder on you than it is on the others because of the novelty, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to use you less, either. You understand, right?”

“I do.” Vanna said. “I just hate the stereotyping.”

“If I made you wear a beret and a striped shirt, then you could complain about that. But that also might increase sales.” Patti said. The others chuckled lightly. She looked around at her staff, ready to serve with their huge hardons. “Melanie?”

Melanie snapped to attention, clenching a bit, feeling her hole clamp eagerly at the implant inside her. She felt it tingle like a cough drop between her cheeks.

“If I may…” Patti dropped her skirt, wearing no panties underneath at all.

“Patti?” Melanie looked down at Patti’s nude body, the same as all theirs, her cock dangling limply from her body.

“I may was well tell you all. Annie is gone.” Patti said. It wasn’t clear if she’d been fired or quit. The euphemism was almost certainly deliberate. “We’re expecting a pretty busy day, and I wanted to bring her in, but… well, she just wasn’t a fit. So…” Patti tipped up her glasses to inspect the devices closer. “What’s left?”

“Creme de menthe and raspberry.” Melanie identified them by their colors immediately, pointing to them in turn.

“Mint it is, then.” Patti took out the penultimate implant. Annie wasn’t a good fit, but the implant definitely was, sliding effortlessly into Patti. Her cock slowly woke, reaching its full height. She even took the matching green skirt and put it on.

“If you need mint, just call me down from the office. I’ll be right down unless I’m on the phone. OK?”

The group mumbled in acceptance.

“Oh! We’re also supposed to have a new pastry chef coming in for an interview.”

“Are we going to start selling pastries again?” Zelda said.

“We might, if she kills the interview.” Patti explained.

“I hope we don’t.” Zelda pouted. “To me, them buying a pastry with coffee is just saying that we’re not sweet enough on our own.”

“I understand.” Patti noted. “But if they can’t buy something here, they’re going to buy it at Starbucks or Tim Horton’s. We put them back in the door at a competitor, and they might decide to just stick with regular coffee.”

Zelda didn’t respond, looking off, evidently unhappy.

“I don’t think we’re bringing back breakfast sandwiches.” Patti said. “But scones… why not?”

Patti looked to the group. “We ready?”

Melanie looked to the quintet of erections, almost pointing inwards towards each other like the logs in a campfire. They certainly were ready. Patti stepped out from the group, putting her hand in the middle of them. The others put their hands atop hers.

“C8-H10-N4-02!” They said, breaking the hands apart at the end.

Ironically, they said it with little energy.

As they walked out to the front of the shop, not remotely when Patti was out of earshot, Vanna said suddenly, “I’m not even that kind of French! I’m from Quebec!”

“Well, my parents are from Lebanon and Trinidad and Tobago,” Connie said, beginning her ritual of dismounting all the chairs from the tables and returning them to the floor. “and I STILL get called ‘African-American,’ so… yeah, those countries are both totally in Africa.”

“I didn’t realize you had three parents, Connie.” Said Zelda, counting the change in her register.

“Shut up.” Connie smiled at her.

Within five minutes, they were ready to open. The first customer walked in at one minute before 6:00 AM. A man in jogging clothes walked up to the first counter, Zelda standing behind it, her erection standing above the lowered counters.

“Welcome to the Futa Brew.” Zelda said with an energetic smile. “What can we make for you today?”

The Futa Brew coffee shop had much in common with any other coffee shop. The busiest hours were from however early that shop could stand to open until some time after nine-thirty, and from roughly ten-past-noon until one. It wasn’t that there wouldn’t be a stream of people wandering in at all times, but those peak times were when anyone with a normal job wanted coffee either before they got to work or on their lunch break. It formed a customer bottleneck that the crew of The Futa Brew were well-equipped to handle, even if there were only four of them today.

There were two kinds of brand-new customers that would enter the Futa Brew for the first time. At ten minutes before eight, the first kind stepped in. This was a man of about twenty-four, skateboard under his arm and white earbuds in his ears, but no helmet or safety gear to be found. He was a man who had been told by friends about The Futa Brew, the legendary cafe staffed entirely by beautiful futa babes.

He entered, expecting to find some sort of organized (or disorganized!) orgy going on.

What he got was a lot of excited shouting. But not the kind he was hoping for.

“Zelda, what’s taking so long?!” Yelled Melanie.

“This thing’s a piece of junk, that’s what!” Zelda pounded the stainless steel facade of the espresso machine.

“Calm yourself.” Came a stern voice from above.

“I’m totally calm!” Zelda shouted. “That’s why I didn’t say the F-word!”

“Who didn’t clean the grinder?” Connie yelled, pounding some element of the grinder on the side of a trash can to shake out the coffee grounds. “Who was on last night?”

“Where’s that Vanilla?” Melanie asked while tapping her screen.

“I’ve got it! … Eckander?!” Vanna tried to read the name on the coffee she’d just made.

“It’s ‘Xander.'” Melanie corrected.

“Why you make me read these?” Vanna said rapidly, almost incomprehensible. “You Americans and your… names with X’s in them for no reason.”

Xander took his coffee. “It’s actually ‘Zander’ with a Z.”

“Blame one of them.” Vanna said. “I didn’t write it. Who’s next?”

“This counterfeit pen is dry!” Cried Melanie. “Do you have another one, Patti? I need to check this hundred.”

“No, I don’t.” Called the voice from above. “Just accept it. I’ll check it later.”

“I just made it this morning.” The man chuckled.

Melanie didn’t even look up to acknowledge the joke, if that could be called a joke. “Who has my keys? I need to get into the drop.”

“They’re over there!”

“Where did you point? I didn’t see.”

“Melanie, can you do manual entry on a credit card?”

“We don’t do manual!”

“Since when?”

“Since the office said not to!”

“But the guy’s chip doesn’t work!”

“Try sliding it! Sometimes after it fails three times, it’ll take the slide!”

And so on and so on.

The customer could barely contain his disappointment. Sure, the staff were beautiful futas, just as promised. Their cocks were present and immense, standing erect from their skirts like oil derricks. Maybe they had boners from all the caffeine.

But… it was just a coffee shop with half-naked futa employees. No special drinks evident on the menu, no double entendres, and there seemed to be a real hazard of burning their beautiful privates on some hot surface.

Screw this, he thought, turning around and leaving. He hadn’t been this disappointed in a food service business establishment since he went to the Roadkill Cafe and found they just served burgers and fries. His friends must have fallen for some marketing gimmick.

What was he thinking? Of course the futa don’t jizz into the coffee.

The moment after he left, a customer tried to get the barista’s attention. “Where are your newspapers?”

Melanie looked up. “Did someone steal them ALREADY? Dammit!”

“Newsburgler strikes again.” Zelda said.

“If I ever find him… I’ll…” Melanie growled, shaking her head.

“You’ll what?” Zelda grinned. “You’ll jizz in his coffee?”

“No.” She said. “I’ll find that box of non-dairy creamer in the back.”

“You wouldn’t!”

Someone who knew what they were apparently getting into at the Futa Brew, and visiting for the first time, they might be disappointed in how much it looks and operates like an ordinary coffee shop. If you happened to leave in a window of less than two minutes, or if the crowd surrounding the counter was thick enough, you might not even see the baristas making a coffee.

There were two kinds of brand-new customers that would enter the Futa Brew for the first time. Today, the second kind came in at the perfect time to have a more illuminating experience.

A thin man with scraggly hair, an unimpressive goatee and black T-shirt walked in to the cafe, looking about the place with a certain baffled curiosity. Among the staff, they called that “The Look.” It was like watching a kid enter a giant circus tent for the first time, or someone entering the Sydney Opera House and finally reconciling how big it really was.