C|Suite Letters: One Ariana Grande To Go, Please!
C|Suite is a men's magazine founded by Frank Cervi. It combines urban/office life-style articles with soft-core pornographic pictorials. In recent years, C-Suite introduced the 'letters' column in which readers send in borderline ridiculous sexcapades, resulting often in explicit and unnecessary detail.
One Ariana Grande To Go, Please!
Dear C|Suite: Being new to Manhattan, and starting a corporate job in a big city—when you’ve lived in a small town all your life—can be confusing for a young man like me. Pop-culture escapes me; I grew up on local AM and HAM radio.
My town in Idaho consisted of the average and not the sublime, where barn parties on the weekend were the biggest thing; made out with a few girls; light finger-banging was accomplished most of the time.
Needless to say, what I had experienced during my fifth day in the Big Apple, as a ‘temp’(working for an internship), has changed my outlook on life—as well as coffee— forever.
At work from my desk, during one fine morn, I overheard two dude bros—sales douche bags who were my superiors—around the water cooler describing what I thought, at the time, was a new Starbucks coffee item.
These dudes went on-and-on about something called an 'Ariana, Grande'. Now, I don’t normally drink coffee, or go to Starbucks at all, but I had heard that the company refers to the small, medium and large sizes as: Tall, Grande, and Venti.
All I could overhear for a brief moment, through the array of office distractions, were the words ‘Ariana, Grande,’ accompanied by one of them saying something like, “So smooth, hot and…I want to—that”.
I, at the time, assumed he said something like, “It’s so smooth, hot…I want to drink that.”
Later on in the afternoon, the one dude bro from earlier hollered at me; he ordered me to go and fetch the crew some coffees—Yes, I am the coffee bitch right now at the office. I asked them all if they wanted an Ariana, Grande—they all for some reason, laughed out loud to my face.
I didn't clue in. Is there some inside Big Apple thing I am not getting here?
But then, one of them (after laughing, profusely) said, “Actually, Cory, yes….. go and get an Ariana, Grande. If you do that….I will not only give you a 100% raise, but you can have my corner office!”
It’s usually hard to tell when these guys are joking or being serious, because they do alot of coke in the bathroom around 3PM, every day.
Whatever though, I thought. It was a beautiful Manhattan day and I needed to stretch my legs, anyway.
So, I set out on my journey to the nearest Starbucks; the holy grail of millennial women’s mornings. I thought to myself along the way, Well, it must be really, really good coffee…especially this 'Ariana' flavor/style.
Fall was in the air and so was the smell of Pumpkin Spice lattes. Women were lining up like lemmings on their work breaks, licking their lips and crossing their legs; trying not to spontaneously orgasm over the pure taste of autumn in their mouths.
I am not kidding, some of the women sitting inside looked like they had just creamed in their Lulu’s; running to the bathroom to rub one off after having a 20 oz of the pumpkin spice perfection; a Venti for their vagina.
I don’t get it; pumpkin flavored stuff just isn’t that earth shattering of a taste to me.
Pumpkin spice wasn’t on my mind though; I wanted an Ariana, Grande.
Strolling up to the counter, while walking past all of the women squirming in their chairs with their eyes rolling back into their heads, I voiced my order to the first young barista with green hair, tattoos, and a nose ring—a qualified professional.
“I’ll take two Caramel Macchiatos, Venti; one Caffè Americano, Tall; and an Ariana, Grande. All to go, please.”
The barista looked competent and knowledgeable—nodding and confirming the other orders in her head—up until I had stressed the order for my Ariana, Grande.
“I am sorry, what was that last order?” she said. Adding an upward inflection.
“An Ariana, Grande…please.”
“Um….we don’t carry that flavor…sir. Actually, Ariana Grande is a—"
Before the uppity barista could finish her sentence, I received a hand-tapping on my lower back. I spun around to see who wanted my attention.
My penis instantly pointed...out the obvious to me: This chick was hot.
The mystery woman motioned to the barista behind me, signaling to her with her hand that ‘she’s got this’.
I looked back at the barista; she looked shocked; her jaw metaphorically hitting the counter. Time sort of stood still. I didn’t know what was happening.
Around me, everyone seemed stunned; women were still having pumpkin-spice orgasms in their chairs; my barista, forgetting how to do her job.
I gazed at this young woman in front of me, her eyes were a type of deep dark sexy that would make an impoverished African, jealous. Her skin was smooth like mocha cream; a tight little body you could really throw around the room in a heat of passion.
“So….you want an Ariana Grande? Sorry for being nosey…but I overheard your order,” she said in a curious way.
“Well ya….people, especially guys in my office, were raving about it.”
This minx looked as if she was about to say something, but then paused and reconsidered for a brief moment while she looked me up and down.
“Um…..you don’t know who I am, do you?” Her eyes narrowed. A sly grin showing me that this girl had some sort of secret to share.
“No, but I suppose you know where I could get an Ariana, Grande... right?” I replied. I was all confused. I reached my hand out to hers.
“Nice to meet you, Cory.”
She shook my hand., caressing the inside slightly before pulling away.
"Her eyes were a type of deep dark sexy that would make an impoverished African, jealous.."
“Well, what’s your—”
“Say…Cory,” she said. Cutting me off, rudely. Giving her hair a toss; toying with the ends of her strands. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”
I couldn’t even gather my thoughts correctly, this woman was so hot and attractive; I just word-vomited my life in a nutshell to her.
“Uhh... I lived in a small town in Idaho..on a farm..recently moved here; I live with my folks; work a shitty low-paying job; I am six-foot four; I was the captain of my high school lacrosse team."
She bit her lip halfway through my weird and awkward life confession.
“Wait….hold on….did you just say you’re six-foot four?”
“Ya….I did. Why?” I said. I noticed her lightly licking her lips. I thought to myself…It must be real dry in here.
She suddenly perked up; a big smile appeared; her cheeks started to glow a red hue.
“Do you wanna get out of here? I mean…I know where you can find and enjoy an Ariana, Grande.”
“Uhh…well, ya! Sure." I said.
"I just have to be back at the office by—”
“Don’t worry….this won’t take long, trust me. My house isn’t too far away.” she interrupted.
“So…do you have like an ‘Ariana bean’ at your place I can grind to make this drink?” I added, in a baffled tone.
“Ya…..something like that.” she replied. Smirking back at me, as she led the way out of Starbucks.
After a short ride in the back of this chick’s town car, we arrived at her mansion: We were buzzed-in at the gate by a voice with an English accent; her house had the longest fucking driveway of life.
It was nothing like I was use to back in Idaho: Her chauffeur—his name was Benjamin—a burly black dude, opened the door for us as we made our way into the front foyer.
The 'employee culture' of this residence was diverse like Canada.
As we walked through her foyer, I could see what looked like awards; platinum and gold records encased/framed on the wall; I couldn’t make out the names or the songs.
“Are you a avid collector of music memorabilia?” I asked.
“No...not really…” she said. Letting out her hair with her hands. Arching her back; making her ass look more prominent.
With ever step we took, she was taking a piece of clothing, one after the other, off of her smooth, well-toned, creamy body: Earrings first; hair scrunchy, leather jacket, shirt, pants. She was leaving a trail of material items littered across the marble tiles.
A butler, like clockwork, dashed out of a room and handed her a lavish looking, purple satin slip dress. More servants/staff were falling-in behind us (like some weird intro to an Austin Powers film), basically picking up the Fall catalog from Gucci, left behind us on the floor.
She slid the slip dress on her, without missing a beat.
I tried to keep up with her pace, being two-steps behind her; spinning my wheels in order to comprehend what in the fuck I just walked into.
How many people fucking live/work here? Geez, I wish my workplace was this efficient...
Before I could even rationalize what the hell was happening, she led me into a large, dark billiard room. One half was faintly illuminated by some glossy covered lights above a bar, the other half of the room was almost pitch black….but it felt like we weren’t alone.
She took my hand and led me toward the bar.
A bartender appeared, slowly inching his way forward from the darkness; he poured us both a flute of Veuve Cliquot and then slowly slithered backward, away from the bar with his head lowered—a hand gesturing ‘enjoy’—, back into the darkness behind the bar as if he has done this routine many times before.
Speechless, wondering what the fuck was about to happen next, we both took a drink of our Veuve Cliquot, staring at each other as if we were two lonely souls at 2 AM.
Suddenly (like on cue), she went from taking a sip to fully chugging down her champagne, setting her crystal champagne flute on the bar.
She looked at me, seductively.
“Do you like Bruce Hornsby & The Range?” she said. Which was out of left field, even at this point for me.
“Sure, I mean…there alrig..—”
Before I could get in another word, an amazing piano intro started to play; it was coming from the dark side of the room. Then, a spotlight from the ceiling illuminated a large grand piano (A Steinway) which had a man playing the intro to the song ‘The Way It Is’.
It was Bruce Hornsby.
As this was all happening, this chick (who had led me on this bizarre journey for coffee to her house) had already started walking toward the piano, taking off her purple satin slip dress; slipping off her panties; flinging it as Bruce’s face (he didn’t even react or budge)—I followed her to the piano while she rambled on in a lecturing tone, talking over the music.
"The Way It Is, Cory, is a song I hold dear to me. It is memorizing, not just instrumentally, but lyrically as well. It's a song about rejecting the status-quo; not yielding to our racial and socio-economic prejudices. It's about those who have and those who want to have. We are all human."
She got close to Bruce during her brief philosophy lesson, as he was dancing his fingers on the keys of the Steinway; she ran her hand through his hair, then did the same with her index finger, down the side of his jawline.
"We all want... what we can't have, Cory. For me, though, I can have anything. To have you, however, would be taboo for a person like me. The status-quo, what should be, is different for both of us. Yet, we exist in the same world; walk the same streets; feel the same urges..."
She then turned to face me.
“Have you ever fucked on-top of a grand piano, Cory?” she said. Hopping her naked ass onto the perfectly polished, black Steinway; other spotlights then illuminated a small stage near the back wall. Shining high-quality lighting onto a group of men with a drum-set, guitars, a synth, and a panache for catchy blue grass rock—It was The Range.
They joined in with Bruce's intro.
I didn’t say anything, just reluctantly shook my head. What in the fuck…is going on!?
She then signaled me over to the piano with a come hither motion of her finger. I didn’t know what to do, so I got naked too. I followed my ever human instinct at this point.
I think this crazy chick actually wants to fuck me right now....in front of Bruce and The Range...on-top of this very expensive, grand piano.
As I climbed up on-top of the piano with her, she grabbed me close. We started to make-out like two horny high-schoolers in their parents basement.
"Have you ever fucked on-top of a
grand piano, Cory?"
Then, the crashing chords to the song came after the chorus; at which point she grabbed and guided my rock-hard dick—frantically—toward her eager, moist hole: A vagina, clearly ready for entry. That thing was glistening like a petunia in the sun after a morning's mist.
We started banging.... hard, like feverish rabbits; Bruce looked like he could’ve cared less; The Range didn’t miss a beat.
The musical arrangement could only be described as: Bruce’s magical voice, his impeccable piano playing, the guitars, synth and drums; the wet sounds of two strangers smashing their bits together in the background.
That was the way it was.
At one point, I pulled my cock out of this chick I'd barely known for all but an hour or so; I started to go down on her. Hmmm….hot, smooth... and creamy, I thought to myself.
In doing this, I made her hit a very high octave; she came hard. After doing so, she got this crazed look in her eyes (like when a woman sees something on sale) that told me she wanted more. My dick then plunged back into her eager void; the black polish of the piano was starting to get a heavy sprinkling with every thrust into this chick's, squish-box.
I was about to explode and she knew it. When the time came, I pulled out; shot the biggest wad since I was fourteen on a curious Saturday night, right at her chest.
It looked like somebody had thrown a balloon full of egg whites at her tits. Some of it ricocheted onto Bruce; he didn’t even flinch a muscle. What a professional.
He just finished out the outro to the song and sat there, stoically, like a Queen’s Guard at Buckingham Palace.
She and I then collapsed in a breathless stare on the piano; tongues in each others mouths, embracing like two retarded snakes. The spotlights then turned off on The Range, but remained on Bruce and us; slowly dimming to a reasonable level.
Before I could even gather my thoughts and emotions, another butler swooped in and tossed us a box of wet-naps; a towel fell next me. She cleaned herself off, as did I.
Bruce still had some jizz on his suit, along with his nice Steinway piano; He was still sitting there, calmly, while we cleaned ourselves off.
I noticed Bruce had a look on his face of composed annoyance, while putting on an air of showmanship at the same time.
I tried to say something, anything really, about how amazing/fucked-up the last hour was. Heck, the last 4.47 minutes were sublime; Bruce really played the shit out of that song.
Before I could utter a word, the girl and I got off of the piano; she kissed me deeply and then quickly picked up her purple satin slip dress.
“That was amazing, Cory… stay for as long as you want," she said. Putting her hand on my chest. "Have another drink if you feel like it. But I have to leave immediately though for a business meeting. Benjamin, my butler/chauffeur, will drive you back to your office when you are ready…”
She quickly kissed me again. Whispering in my ear, "Thanks for the orgasms.."
Her hand then grabbed my ass; copping a feel.
“O.K….byeeee.” I said. Still shaky in a post-orgasmic state. Waving my hand slightly as she wiggled her ass out of the large room, never to be seen again.
As soon as she exited the room, normal ceiling lights and wall sconces turned on.
When this happened, Bruce let out a huge sigh; his posture went into a collapsed relief.
Bruce then looked over at his band, “Alright boys….we're done for today…go get something to drink from the bar.”
I then looked over at him, still half-naked at this point, wondering where I threw my belt and socks.
“Bruce, what the fuck was that all about? Who is this chick?!” I exclaimed. The Range were setting down their instruments, making their way toward the bar for a drink.
“Ya I know.... what a Tom cat, eh?” he said, with a cheeky grin as he was taking off the suit jacket that had cum on it.
Bruce then explained to me the situation I was in—almost like it was a slow Tuesday for him.
“Yeah kid, she does this all the time,” he calmly explained. One of his band mates came over to hand him an ice cold Coors Banquet.
“She likes to fuck random,'lower-class', tall and buff guys off the street...on-top of her grand piano to 'The Way It Is'.”
Smiling at me, he took a sip of his Coors. A band-mate then asked if I wanted anything. I obliged; I got tossed a nice cold one as well.
Bruce continued where he left off.
“She particularly likes to fuck guys who don’t have a clue who she is, celebrity wise,” he said. Raising a brow, sipping once again on his beer. "She gets-off on it, I guess."
“Celebrity wise? What’s her name?” I replied in a curious haste.
“Ariana….Ariana Grande.” he said. Motioning to put his beer down on-top of the Steinway.
As he was about to do this, another random butler came out of nowhere and plopped a coaster down on the piano for Bruce at the very last second.
It was all now making sense to me, "Ohhh, gotcha...she is Ariana Grande! Boy, do I feel stupid!"
Bruce then continued in further explanation.
“Ya…it’s a good gig, really. She usually likes to fuck in the afternoons... so we show up here, call it 9 O’clock. We set up and do a sound check... then wait around until she gives us a text saying she's bringing somebody back for a ‘quickie’.”
Speechless, I just sat there and listened to Bruce tell his tale of being Ariana’s personal 'mood music' player.
“That’s why she likes me to play ‘The Way It Is,’ because the song usually finishes about the same time she usually does. I’ve been doing this for a while….she normally finishes in about 3-4 minutes and then takes off.”
I nodded. “Well, it’s a really great song, Bruce. It’s a perfect 80’s ballad to fuck to, if I do say so myself.”
He then nodded in agreement as well. “Yes, well... when I wrote it….I didn’t think down the road I would be here today…in this sort of Las Vegas residency type-of-arrangement, with a Twenty-something female pop-star….but…that’s just the way it is, I guess.” He shrugged.
I took another swig of my beer, while trying to put the last of my discarded clothes from before onto my body. Still listening to Bruce drone on-and-on about getting paid to watch this chick fuck to his smooth and catchy, award-winning music. Brag, much?
“I mean, she pays us $100k a day and its usually just one session. All we have to do is hang around, basically wait until she wants to bang somebody. Sometimes she will call us in for an ‘emergency’ session late at night…but it’s not a big deal," he continued. Waiving his hand around in the air. "If she thinks she's going to ‘need us’ a lot that week, we normally bunk-up in her pool house in her backyard. It’s pretty nice.”
As we both finished our beers, my clothes were back on to my body. I asked Bruce for the time—I think I had left my phone at the office.
“It’s almost 4 PM, Cory,” he said. “Would you like me to play ‘Circus On The Moon’ for you before Benjamin takes you back?”
I considered the offer. Bruce did seem rather eager to play it.
“Umm…how long is the song?”
“About 6-ish minutes.”
“Can you do like a radio edit version….that’s a long fucking song, Bruce.”
“Cory, that is the radio version…”
I then told Bruce that I had to take a rain check on ‘Circus On The Moon’; thanked him and The Range for the performance.
I made my way out to the town car. Benjamin had been waiting for quite some time, like a true professional who has gone through this routine a lot, it seemed.
Arriving back at the office, I was met with a slew of insults by all the sales dude bros whom I'd gone to fetch coffee for. I received a lot of, “What do you mean you don’t have my Caffè Americano!?” and many, “What the fuck were you doing that whole time!” sort of lines.
I did, however, manage to tell them all that I got to try an 'Ariana Grande'; that it was everything I hoped, wished, and thought it would be: Hot, smooth, creamy, bold, and wet to the touch.
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