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Burger Queen
by Mike Kimera © 2005



The smell alone is enough to make me hard: hot fat, salt, flame-grilled meat. These are the perfumes she brings to my dreams. Sometimes, in my sleep, I’ve come just by imagining the taste of her burger-tainted sweat in my mouth.

I push through the mindless crowds who come here for a fast-food fix and select the line that will bring me to her. Those about me shuffle forward, cattle waiting to be fed. I am awake, alert, aroused, a hunter circling the herd.

I’m less than two meters away from her now and she hasn’t noticed me. She is still calm and unaware. I like to observe her like this, a doe at the waterhole, tempting and vulnerable.

As always, she is dressed in her tight fitting Burger King uniform, ponytail hanging provocatively from her baseball cap, name badge penetrating the fabric over one large breast just above the nipple, illuminated like a goddess against the brightly lit signs offering to sate my hungers.

Some might think her heavy, but I sigh at the thought of her solid flesh and smooth skin. I want to bury my fingers into the warm dough of her thighs. I want to heft her breast up to my mouth, rejoicing in its weight and anticipating its flavor.

While I am still one person away from her, I let my thumb stroke down across the erection that stretches down my thigh, putting pressure on my jeans. I am so hard I could take my pulse through the denim.

Then she is standing before me, waiting. She smiles. Then she recognizes me and the smile dims; the subconscious recognition of predator by prey perhaps.

“What can I get for you?” I know the words are ritual, said to all who come to her altar, but that does not diminish their meaning.

I look her directly in the eye, leaning forward so my erection is pressed against the counter in painful pleasure, and unleash the porn-storm across my mind, charging my lust with lightning fast images: of her kneeling, mouth full and gagging; the taste of her neck in my mouth as I pull open her  striped shirt and knead the tender meat of her breast;  sighing against me as I slide my hand past the waistband of her trousers and curl my fingers into her cunt; the soft strength of her ponytail wrapped around my fist as I bend her over the counter and push into the tight warmth of her ass; the smile on her face as she jacks me eagerly into her grateful, greedy mouth.

It only takes seconds for my come to shudder through me, and blossom, wet and dark, against my jeans, an unseen token of my affection. “You can make mine a Whopper,” I say.

There, I can see it in her eyes, the recognition that these words in my mouth, spoken to her at this temple of gratification, are a blessing. She looks down as she names the amount of the offering she requires. My fingers stray across her hand as she takes the money and I can feel the charge between us.

She busies herself serving me. I devour her every move, recording them for pre-sleep playback.

When the tray is ready, she offers it to me. There is no smile on her face now. She wants me to be gone. I understand completely. My presence overwhelms her.

I sit at a table where I can keep her in sight as I eat. She is the yielding bun beneath my fingers, the warm tender meat that I rip with my mouth, the hot salt sensation of the fries that I suck between my teeth. Her offering appeases my hunger but strengthens my appetite for her.

With one last glance at her delightful form, I head out to my car to wait for the end of her shift.

I watch her leave, thin coat wrapped over her uniform, not quite warm enough now that winter is howling at our doors. She folds her arms around her, bows her head and pushes towards the bus shelter.

I know how it will happen. I have seen it many times in my dreams. The bus will be cancelled or late. The rain will be cold and merciless. I will offer her a lift in my warm dry car. She will hesitate but she will choose comfort over security. Then my worship of her can truly begin.

But, for now, I content myself with watching her climb onto the bus, diving back into the safety of the herd.

She will be back tomorrow, my Burger Queen, and I will let her continue to serve me.

  _______
© 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Who is Mike Kimera? Read his bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.


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