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yonderlogz · 3 years ago

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Burger Kink (Ff, trans, hypnosis, noncon, watersports, rimming)

As you reached the counter, it took a moment to remember why you were there. For a second you struggled to remember where you were, but the bright lights and bright signs and the smell of hot fries hit you.

You were in Burger King, of course.

After driving for seven hours, you were hungry. And tired. That was probably why you stopped here, at a Burger King in the middle of nowhere, at one in the morning.

Why were you at the counter, though?

Right, they’d gotten your order all wrong!

You looked at the girl behind the counter, the girl who had served you earlier, and you tried to make eye contact. She was the only person you could see behind the counter, and you were the only person on the other side.

She wasn’t looking at you. She wasn’t turned away, and she could surely see that you were standing there and waiting, but she didn’t acknowledge your presence. She had sharp features and heavy makeup. Her shirt wasn’t tucked in, strands of platinum-blonde hair had slipped out from under her cap, and she looked utterly bored.

Her boredom was understandable, but you were hungry. And you hadn’t gotten the right order.

You looked directly at her, and cleared your throat.

She took out her phone, and began scrolling. As she laughed under her breath at an unseen joke, you felt an ember of anger smoulder inside you.

You were very hungry, after all, and tired.

“Excuse me,” you said.

For a moment she ignored you, and as your nostrils flared and you opened your mouth to repeat yourself, she looked up at you, her expression as blank and bored as ever.

“Hey,” she said. Her grey eyes met yours, but she didn’t put her phone away.

‘Hey yourself’ you thought. You couldn’t blame her for being distracted on a long, boring overnight shift, but she seemed actively rude. You pointedly looked at her phone, and then back up at her.

“You’re not busy, are you?” you asked, keeping your voice level.

The girl made a show of looking around the empty restaurant, and said “No,” before pocketing her phone and walking up to the till. “What’s up?”

You opened and shut your mouth, feeling annoyed despite yourself as you tried to remember what exactly was up. “Well,” you say, “you served me earlier and–”

“Yeah.”

Scowling, you continued, “You served me earlier, but the fries were cold, the chicken burger had no mayo, and the milkshake was the wrong flavor.”

She looked at you blankly. Then, she said, “That sucks.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said 'That sucks.’”

“Yes it sucks!” you snapped. You felt genuinely angry now, and as you glared at her you kept seeing new things to be angry about. She had a headphone in one ear blaring music loud enough for you to hear it. The floor she was standing on was filthy and hadn’t been mopped for hours. She was chewing gum!

You weren’t allowed to chew gum while serving food. That was a fireable offence, surely! Of course, you didn’t want to get anyone fired, but you were very hungry and tired, and you couldn’t understand why she was being so rude.

You tried to peer behind her into the kitchen, but you could see no-one else. She clearly wasn’t a supervisor–surely they wouldn’t have her running the place all on her own.

The exasperated sigh that came out of her mouth made your hands clench into fists.

“So, you want new fries and mayo for your burger.”

Your stomach growled, and you growled with it. “My burger is stone cold, I’d like a fresh one, *please*. And the right milkshake! I asked for strawberry!”

She blinked at you, and shook her head. “The milkshake machine broke.”

“What? You served me a milkshake a minute ago!”

She shrugged. “Milkshake machine broke.”

“You know what, forget it,” you said through clenched teeth. “Just give me a refund.”

She shook her head.

“Hey! You can’t not give me a refund, I didn’t even eat the meal!”

She shook her head again, then turned and pointed “Look at the milkshake machine.”

“Do you have a manager, or something? I want to make a complaint.”

You try to look at her nametag, straining your eye to see it, more from tiredness than her making any attempt to conceal it.

It read “PUSSY CRUSHER.”

You didn’t think that was her real name.

She looked you dead in the eye, and said “Listen, just take a look at the milkshake machine, and I’ll give you a refund and a free meal too, okay?”

She said it with such condescension that you almost turned away and walked out right then, but you wanted your money back. You wanted to yell at her, too, and yank out her headphones and make her spit out her gum and rub her smug, bored face into the cold slop she’d tried to get away with serving you, but you definitely weren’t leaving without your money.

She walked up to the brushed-steel milkshake machine, clicked a latch on the side, and removed the front panel.

“Look,” she said, and you looked within.

You saw four clear cylinders stacked in a square with the ends facing you, each one with a flavor of milkshake within, each one churning constantly, rotating in one direction as a plastic scraper within it turned in the other direction.

Chocolate, strawberry, banana, vanilla.

They weren’t broken at all. They were churning, over and over, humming mechanically, turn after turn and churn after churn as steam rose off the cold surface. The more you looked at them the more you were sure they were working fine, perfectly, even.

They were loud. They were very loud, weirdly loud. You couldn’t hear the tiny, tinny whine of music coming out of the girl’s headphones any more. Or the pop songs playing over the PA system.

In fact, you couldn’t hear anything else at all, just the jurrrr-jurrrr-jurrr of almost-frozen dairy products being turned over, and over, and over, and over…

As you stared into the ever-turning strawberry cylinder, some instinct deep within you made you want to look away. So you looked away.

You were looking at the banana cylinder.

You were still looking at the banana cylinder.

Annoyed, you looked away.

You were looking at the banana cylinder.

You were very tired. So, so tired.

Where were you, again?

Right, right, you were looking at the banana cylinder.

“Listen to me.”

Her voice was so loud it felt like it had been pushed into your ears on Q-tips. You listened. You couldn’t help but listen, in fact, you wanted to listen. You wanted to listen so badly that you wanted to jump up and down and yell that you were listening.

You didn’t do that, though. You didn’t say anything or do anything, you didn’t move a muscle. You just kept staring at the shake machine. You were too tired to do anything else.

“You feel real tired.”

Yes, you wanted to say, but you didn’t.

“Tell me if you’re feeling tired or not.”

I’m feeling tired.

That was strange. You didn’t hear yourself speak, but you felt your lips and mouth move, and felt the air and the vibrations as they left your throat.

You were really tired though, so tired. You couldn’t even focus on the banana cylinder now, and your eyes were flitting between all four of them, and the corners of your vision had gone dark. Every time you blinked the space around the cylinders grew darker, and you couldn’t stop yourself from blinking.

“Do as I tell you.”

You would, you knew that you would, but before you could try to speak, everything went black.

You opened your eyes, and the restaurant pulsed back into being

The cover had been put in place back on the shake machine, but the machine seemed larger than it had before.

You realized that it looked larger because you were closer. You were standing on the other side of the counter, behind the till, though you didn’t remember walking there.

Still you could hear the churning, churning endlessly, drowning out everything else.

The girl stepped in front of you. She looked bored and annoyed, and she was still chewing gum, though you couldn’t hear the sound of it any more.

“Why are you here?”

Because your order was wrong, you felt yourself say.

She shook her head, and a roiling ball of anxiety blotted out whatever thoughts remained in your mind.

“No. You’re here because you’re a bad customer.”

I’m not a bad customer, you said, I’m just hungry, I ordered–

“You feel embarrassed.”

Every awful memory of embarrassment came back and plastered itself over your brain at once. Wetting yourself on a coach trip in eighth grade, being stood up for a date, burping in your first boyfriend’s mouth, bringing a bottle of wine to a muslim wedding, turning up to the wrong job interview–

“You feel ashamed.”

Unable to complete your degree. Never call your grandparents. Went out for a meal without enough money and hurried out of the restaurant before they noticed the 2% tip. Too cowardly to ask your boss for a raise, and too lazy to find another job.

“You feel guilty”

You’ve never helped anyone. You’ve made the world worse by being in it. You can’t think how, but you just know you’ve hurt everyone you’ve ever loved.

"You feel like crying.”

Your throat tightened up and hot tears ran down your cheeks. You felt as if a gash had been carved down your torso.

“You’re awful.”

Stop, stop, please, just stop, I understand, I understand.

“You’d do anything to not feel like this.”

Yes

“You’d do anything to be a better person.”

Yes, yes

“To be a good customer.”

Yes, please, God please anything.

She raised her hand and snapped her fingers

You could still hear the churning, but it was muted. In the distance, you could hear pop songs playing over the PA again, and the sizzle of the fryer.

“You,” she said, her voice loud but no longer blotting out every other sound, “are a bad customer.”

You nodded, and felt like crying again. “Yes, I am,” you said, hearing your own voice again.

“Do you know why you’re a bad customer?”

You didn’t, though you knew that you should. “No, I don’t know.”

She sighed, clearly at her wits end with your stupidity. “I was about to go on break. You came up to me and wasted my time. Because you wasted my time, I have to do a bunch of extra stuff before I can take my break.”

It didn’t seem right, what she was saying, Wasn’t the restaurant empty? And wasn’t she on her phone anyway? But you knew from the way she spoke that she was telling the truth. You had ruined her break, and maybe her whole shift.

“I’m s-sorry,” you mutter.

She seemed unimpressed. “If you’re sorry, you’ll make it up to me.”

“How do I do that?”

“Well, I wanted a break because I haven’t been to the bathroom since I came on shift. You need to help me with that.”

“Okay,” you said, but your mind felt fuzzy on the details. “…How do I do that? Do you want me to stand at the till or–”

She rolled her eyes. “No, nothing dumb like that. Just… look, just kneel down, okay? It’s not hard.”

You didn’t understand but you crouched down before gently going to your knees, wincing as they touched the cold tile floor. As you settled in place, you saw that the filth on the floor was rubbing off onto your skirt.

She walked in front of you, her belt level with your eyes. It was white and embroidered, and definitely not Burger King crew issue.

“Unzip my pants for me.”

You glanced up at her, and saw her with her phone in one hand and a cup of soda in the other, and then looked back at her crotch. It was next to your face, and it smelled of washing powder and stale frying oil.

Your fingers went to her zipper, unlatching it at the top before pulling it down, revealing a pair of white cotton panties dotted with blue hearts underneath

There was a bulge in her panties, and a sweet, subtly musky smell to join the smells of stale oil and fresh laundry.

“Take my dick out.”

Your breathing trembled but your fingers did not as you pulled her panties down just far enough to pull out her cock and balls. Smooth, soft and petite, with the thinnest sheen of sweat.

She reached down with two fingers and pulled back her foreskin, revealing the pink head underneath.

“Put it in your mouth.”

Her skin felt cool as you wrapped your lips around it, the smell of musk intensifying as you tasted the salt from her sweat. There was something odd about having a penis in your mouth in the middle of a restaurant, especially when you didn’t even know the name of the girl whose penis it was, but at least you were doing what you were supposed to be doing, instead of embarrassing yourself.

“Good,” she said, and you felt warmth bloom within you at the hint of praise, “now keep your lips wrapped tight, and don’t spill a drop.”

Your eyes went wide as you felt a trickle of salty, brackish liquid in your mouth. Unable to spill it, you had no alternative but to swallow it, and as you did it became a torrent.

She was pissing in your mouth, and you were swallowing it. Your nostrils flared as you struggled to suck in air, and trying to breathe between gulps filled your nose with the smell of fresh piss.

She was using you as a urinal, and your disgust at the thought grew with each mouthful, but before you could pull away you felt her fingers in your hair.

“What a good girl you are…” she said.

You knew she was right. She was using you as a urinal, and that made you a good girl.

She hadn’t been lying about holding it in since she got on shift. It was a strong brew, overwhelmingly salty, and it seemed endless. Your belly grew taut, and although you didn’t feel hungry anymore, you were beginning to feel queasy. In fact, you felt like you were a few mouthfuls away from vomiting it all back up. You felt more than a little relieved as her stream petered out.

“Take your mouth off my dick, Piss Girl.”

You did as she said, relinquishing it with a pop.

“Look up at me.”

As soon as you did, a jet of piss hit you square on the nose. You flinched from surprise, and as you struggled to regain composure she hosed down the rest of your face with the last of her stream, giggling as she did. Yellow urine dripped down your chin and onto your blouse as you gasped for air.

“That wasn’t bad,” she said, tucking her cock back into her pants. “Now that you’ve taken care of my break problem, why don’t we see if we can fix your mayonnaise problem. Follow me.”

You followed her into the kitchen. It made sense to stand up to follow her, but you did not. Instead, you crawled on all fours, spikes of discomfort shooting through your knees from the hard surface, the grime smearing onto your hands and legs.

Moving in such a way jostled your stomach, reminding you of its fullness. You still felt the insistent sting of salt in your mouth and the stomach-turning smell in your nose.

“Look up at me.”

The girl took a pre-sliced bun, split it in half, and dropped it into the top of the automatic toaster. She placed a wrapper blank-side-up on the heated countertop, took the toasted bun as it slid out through the bottom of the toaster, and placed both halves on the wrapper. She pinched a dozen shreds of sad-looking iceberg lettuce, placed them on the bun, grabbed the mayonnaise bottle, and squeezed it.

Nothing came out.

She turned to look down at you, with a look of mock-consternation. “I’m sorry Piss Girl, we’re out of normal mayo. Don’t worry, I’ll whip you up a special batch.”

She did not ask you to respond so you didn’t. You remained in place with aching knees and hands. The heat of the kitchen was already drying your piss-soaked clothes, causing a prickling sensation on your skin below. The smell was only intensifying. You would be sick right there, if only she’d let you.

She dropped a breaded puck of chicken into the fryer and pressed a button on the timer. It read 4:00, then 3:59, 3:58, 3:57…

Immediately, she wriggled her pants down to her knees. Her cock was stiff and jutting directly upwards. “Okay, you’ve got four minutes to help me make this mayonnaise, unless you want some dry-ass chicken to go with it. Kneel upright.”

You knelt up straight.

“Don’t move an inch.”

You couldn’t move an inch. You could barely force yourself to blink as she moved towards you, her cock bobbing from side to side. An inch before it touched your lips, she turned around. Her bare ass was in front of your face. It was pale, boyish, dotted with a few red spots on each cheek.

She spread her cheeks with her hands. Her asshole winked at you. It was clean and shaven, if a little sweaty.

She backed into you. Your face was in her ass. Your nose was in her crack. Your mouth was on her hole.

“Nod if you can still breathe.”

You nodded.

“I’ll try to make this quick so that you can get started. First off, you’re hungry.”

That was true. You were hungry. That was the reason you were here.

“No, you’re real hungry.”

Your stomach twinged and your mouth watered.

“You’re starving. You haven’t eaten for days.”

The feeling of fullness and nausea disappeared, now there was an empty pit inside you trying to reach up and pull something in. The smells of sweat and musk went from off-putting to enticing.

“You’re weak from hunger, you can’t think from hunger.”

Your head throbbed, your bones were water, all you could think of was food. Fries, burgers, chicken, nachos, anything. Every time you thought of a dish your stomach hurt more, and it felt like the pangs were growing strong enough to kill you.

“The pain and weakness is in your whole body. You’d do anything to stop it.”

You’d eat anything, stale bread, three-day-old sardines, mushy instant ramen, Scandinavian food, anything that would stop this pain, anything at all.

“When I tell you, you’re going to start licking my asshole. The more of your tongue is inside me, the less hunger you’ll feel. If you stop licking or take your tongue out, the hunger will come back twice as bad. Nod if you understand.”

You nodded, you nodded and nodded, you just needed her to say the word to say anything that would make the hunger–

“Go!”

You dug in, and dimly heard a squeal of joy. You lapped and licked but she clenched her hole tight to keep you out and the hunger still consumed you, still ate you from the inside out. You could only redouble your efforts, straining your neck and straightening your tongue, pressing it against her hole as if you were trying to fuck it.

The tip of your tongue slipped inside, barely perceptible, but the effects were instant: you were sated, enough to stop the panic, as if you’d been fed a single spoonful of broth. You sounded like a dog as you licked, desperate for more.

“Mhm, I dunno if I’m feeling it, maybe I should push your head away and watch you struggle for a while…”

You ignored her, kept licking, kept wiggling your tongue, pushing your face forward until you were completely smothered between her cheeks. The pain in your mouth wasn’t a tenth of the pain in your stomach.

You heard a giggle and felt her relax. Your tongue slipped inside her, meeting no resistance, as deep as it could go. The pain melted away so suddenly that it became a perverse pleasure, the rush of relaxation from working out a crink in your spine. You felt something damp between your legs, and it wasn’t urine.

“Yeah, that’s good, keep on doing that,” she muttered. You felt a set of rhythmic movements coming through her hips in time with little gasps and moans, and realized she was masturbating.

Your tongue hurt, your knees hurt, your neck hurt but it didn’t matter, you didn’t care, you kept on licking and digging and eating out her ass just like she wanted, the pain was like that of sitting too close to a campfire on a freezing winter night.

“Hah, you’ve got thirty seconds left,” she said, her voice harried, “kiss it like it’s your boyfriend, make out with my asshole like you’re in love with it.”

You kissed it, smooched it, pressed your lips to it, slipped your tongue in and out of it, moaned into it prettily, nuzzled it, lusted after it. You felt tears running down your face and didn’ know if they were from pain or joy. Her rhythms grew jerky, she cursed excitedly, and you heard the rustling of a bun being snatched off a paper wrapped.

“Fuck!”

She was breathing hard. You were still showering her hole with affection.

“Okay, stop that.”

Agony gripped your innards as the hunger returned. She saw the panic and pain in your eyes as she pulled up her pants.

“Ah shit, uh, you don’t feel hungry.”

The hunger vanished. You breathed a sigh of relief. Your jaw, tongue and neck were all throbbing.

“Actually, you feel kinda hungry. You could eat.”

She was right. You could eat.

She showed you the top of the bun with the lettuce on it. It was now criss-crossed with thin, watery cum. It didn’t look very appetizing.

The fryer beeped. She pressed a button, fished out the chicken-puck with a set of tongs, let the oil drip out from the breading for a few seconds, then placed it atop the bun. She picked up the bottom of the bun, went to put it in place, and paused.

“Wait, I’ve got a little extra for you.”

You watched her spit onto the chicken, twice, with perfect accuracy. She placed the bottom of the bun on top, wrapped up the burger, and handed it to you.

She squatted down, face-to-face with you. “You wanted mayo on your freshly made chicken sandwich, huh? Well, here you go. Eat up.”

You unwrapped it, taking care to keep your dirty hands off the burger and on the wrapper, and took a bite. It wasn’t mayo on the burger, it was cum and spit. You understood why it tasted gross. You couldn’t understand why each bite felt so satisfying.

“Well, it’s time for me to get back to work, so I need you out of the kitchen. With each bite you eat, you’re going to feel sleepier and sleepier. When you swallow the last bite, you’ll pass out.”

You were still chewing when your vision went dark.

________________

You woke up.

You straightened up in your seat. In front of you were the remains of your meal: a few flakes and ends of fries, an empty milkshake, a chicken sandwich wrapper with traces of mayonnaise on the paper.

You touched your face, your hair, your clothes. You couldn’t smell urine, and your clothes weren’t damp with it. They smelled cleaner than you remember though they had a strange scent of grease to them, as if washed alongside something oily.

Why would you have thought they’d smell of urine, though?

You didn’t think about it. Out of the window, it looked to be just before dawn. You were still in Burger King. Everything ached.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” came a familiar voice. You all but jumped out of your skin. A girl with sharp features, heavy makeup and platinum blonde hair. Her shirt was neatly tucked into her pants, and she had a look of gentle concern on her face.

“W-what,” you said.

“You’re on a road trip, huh?”

“I’m–yeah, I am. How’d you know?”

“You mentioned something about that earlier, before you ate. Then you passed out on the table.”

You straighten up, and feel things go click and pop in your back and shoulders. The girl was holding a coffee cup in her hand. You looked at her crew badge. It was a McDonalds badge with “GRIMACE” written on it.

You didn’t think that was her name.

“How long was I asleep?”

“I think you came in at two, and it’s half four now, so two hours I guess?” She gave a noncommittal shrug. “We’re not supposed to let people sleep in here, but my brother is a trucker and I don’t like to see people driving tired. Here,” she placed the coffee in front of you, “on the house.”

“Oh. Thank you,” you said. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, just don’t tell my manager when she comes in.”

You take a sip. It’s bad coffee, but it does the job. “I won’t. I guess I should be getting back on the road. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You watched her walk back behind the counter and resume cleaning. Outside, your car was in the parking lot. You collected yourself, checked your bag, put your wrappers and cups in the trash, and made your way to the door.

“Hey.”

Her voice stopped you dead in your tracks. You looked at her. There was an intensity to her eyes that you didn’t recognise.

“Come here again some day,” she said. “You can meet the rest of the crew.”

You nodded mutely, and your mind flashed with the sensation of your lips wrapping around a soft penis, and piss running down your throat. When you walked out of the door the thought was gone, and when you drove out of the parking lot you had forgotten the restaurant entirely.

You wouldn’t remember it until you drove back for the return trip.

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