Burger Spunk

by Anonymous


Menthol, god I love menthol. It’s better than pussy, it’s better than your parents loving you. I work this shit job flipping shit, serving shit, taking shit, primarily so the menthol cigarette break I take every 2 hours is even better. If I didn’t drop out of college, if I had a respectable job, the menthol wouldn’t be so great. It’s the labor, the stress, and the shit I take from fat black women with their tits sagging to their knees that makes it so good.


“Hi I asked for no lettuce, but theres lettuce on here, can I get a refund? what is your name?” They would say. God I loved these women, their loose skin and 100 yard stare, their thinning hair, their children jumping on sauce packets. Everything about them gave me a chub. The cigarette break after dealing with one of these women was the best. I would let it take me, falling, collapsing into the trash around the back of the building where we had to smoke. Every puff out I imagined the smoke shifting into the forms of varies goblins I had encountered, twirls of curves and obtuse angles enraptured me. They always came back, never deterred by the lettuce, my little blemishes. They were the ones knocking on the doors before the lobby opened, tilting their heads, widening their eyes, beckoning me. They were the ones after closing hours, again knocking on the windows, scared, possibly of night rape, hungry, fat. I always let them in, I was the assistant manager. The other workers stared at me in despair of burgers to come, but never spoke up. I would fucking kill them if they spoke up, if they ruined my ritual.

“Yea, so I called in 6 hours ago, and I was told to come pick up my new order whenever because you guys put pickles on ALL twenty of my double burgers NO PICKLES.”


She crossed her arms and leaned back, coming to equilibrium with her swaying mass, it pushed her into the ground every second. Once their arms were crossed, they would not uncross until they got what they wanted.


“We’ll be right on it ma’am, whatever you say.” I slapped some patties, shot some mayo, frisbee’d some tomato and onion slices onto a cool cool bun, everything professionally done. Managerial. To serve my means however this woman could not get everything she wanted. I hadn’t smoked all day, I was throbbing. I picked up a single pickle ring, I was in the business of menthol after all, why not? Why shouldn’t I place it? Burgs were just a side hustle, a means to an end, to a climax.


I placed the mega sized burger bags on the counter, filled to the top. The store was dark, the chairs were already on top of the tables, the others were mopping and cleaning up. Now was the time if ever. Monisha, today’s hog, began opening each plastic wrapper, placing every burg on the counter next to the cash register after they were verified to have exactly zero pickles. One by one to fifteen, where she stopped, her eyes that were seemingly driven deep into her face by means of fat now glared up at me from the burg, this was it.


“Now I know I don’t see what I think I see, sir, how about you look at this burger…”

Her fat swayed under her pendulous arms showing me the patty. Pickled. The purple tank top in front of me was surely one of the few possessions she still fit in. Her grey sweatpants tucked away a lump of enormous size. Babe, you ain’t foolin no one, I know the pussy ain’t that fat.


“Oh, no… I can’t believe we’ve let this happen. This is horrible. Here, follow me and we will make this alright I promise.”
Her arms crossed again as I waved her towards me. We stepped out into the crisp cold air, It blew consistently. Perfect weather. Her meatjesty grumbled as she leaned on the front windows making the glass ache. Don’t worry babe, you got enough meat to hibernate out here. I walked back towards the trash zone. White cement walls encased the two large bins of slop inside, special sauces and plain old ketchup encrusted each disparity in the wall, years of residue had piled up here. The sidewalk inside was tattooed with paper bags and wrappers, everywhere were scattered cigarettes. I entered my home and turned around, being met with increasingly angry crossed arms.


Her face contorted into a comically exaggerated frown, the weight of her fat allowing her to easily assume this gesture. “Here look at this.” I pointed to nothing, but drew her into my house.

“I don’t see what nasty trash has to do with anyt-” I grabbed her by the scruff of her meat neck and gently pulled her farther in. Momentum. I didn’t need much of it to topple the beast. She wimpered, the speed at which her body fell left her brain behind. I squatted down, sitting on her, my legs straddled her width, just barely. I untied my smock, pulling out my pack of swishers and lighter from the pocket inside. I sank deeper into her meat, she was conscious, but truly too fat to do anything, gravity did all the hard work for me. I lit up, my cock smashed against the inside of my black work pants. First breath in… The cool minty air filled my lungs and I gave in. As I blew out the ropes of silky smoke my fantasy figures became a reality. I pressed my face up against her dollar store lipstick, everywhere was grabbable and I grabbed everything. Her face was limp so I tried to make it full, firm, only taking breathes for another drag. I rubbed my pants against her soft abdomen. I imagined meaty thick asses of pornographic women melting into a pool forming the land beneath me. I blew my smoke into her, and it came out her nose for me to take in all over again, minty. I sat up to take one last drag of the little faggot nub still left. I fell backwards this time, cumming in my pants. Her arms fell to the side side and flopped onto the soggy ground as I got up. She would be back, they always come back for more slop. I tied my smock up again and began the wait for next break. God I love menthol.