I am a burger, a juicy delicious construction of the finest American fast food. I have crispy lettuce, harvested only days ago and packed in a chilled truck and sent across the vastness of the nation, all to be a part of me. The story of the succulent tomato is similar. The centerpiece of my being is my twin all-beef patties formed from premium USDA Grade A, blended with an economical mixture of salt and pepper and grilled upon the sizzling, well-greased slab. Decadent, perfectly melted American cheese product oozes from between the opulent sesame seed buns. I bask in the warmth of the heatlamp, awaiting my life's purpose: to bring joy, and satisfaction to some lucky customer who has elected to make me their meal of choice.
After a wait of a few short hours, my time has come. My order is up, and I am whisked away by the hands of an employee from the radiant glow of the lamp into the dark sanctum of a bag, alongside a crispy and expertly salted portion of French fries. The order is to-go and I and my fried compatriot ride within the crumpled compartment, our shared heat mingling in isolation, until, with a ruffling of the paper, the appointed moment has arrived, a hand reaches into the bag— a supple-fingered distinctly female hand. She daintily navigates the gloom, plucking a collection of fries out of the compartment. If the potatoes are feeling anything, elation at the culmination of their existential purpose, or any other feeling, they keep mum about it. A few times more, the hand extracts the fries, until soon the container is vacant, and the fingers are left searching with a faint hint of desperation, prodding at the crumbs and salt crystal remnants until she was satisfied that no more carrion remains. Her hand retreated and I was left in solitude, with only the occasional jostling turbulence of the vehicle over the road disturbing my anticipation of the moment when I am chosen to do that which I was made for.
The vehicle came to a stop, and once more the bag, now lighter and more spacious in the absence of the fries, was taken up and I borne along with it. The sound of a door conspicuously locking resounded, and then, after a moment, the hand, with nails painted an azure blue, took me into their grasp and up into the light and I beheld the face of my beneficiary, to whom I was to satiate the hunger which had brought her to seek out the reputable premium quality of my native restaurant.
Her eyes were large and brown and seemed to bore right through me as she examined me, head on, from top to bottom. They paused briefly upon my patty and continued down to where my bun awaited the grace of her lips. As she took me in hand, I made a silent peace, bracing myself for the contact of her teeth, wondering what the sensation would be like, and pondering if the fries felt the same, and if my billions of forebears had experienced the climaxes of their lives in the same manner as I. Soon, deliverance or oblivion, whatever was in store would be upon me… and yet, instead of eating me, she continued to look, strangely ravenous, but with a quirk I could not comprehend.
The motion of her hands directed me not to her mouth, where she nibbled upon a small portion of her lip, but lower, past her midsection and lower still. One hand released my buns, moving to her pants, where she undid the fastening. I could only ponder as she continued to undress, fingers plucking at the elastic band of her underclothes. A moan escaped her throat, a foreign, sultry noise as the last vestiges of her modesty were removed and I was brought lower still, mere inches away from the shock of dark spindly hair atop her exposed groin. This was accompanied by a look from her, not unlike hunger, but a different sort of desire.
I had traveled far from my birthplace of bright colors and cheerful characters intended to spark childlike wonder in customers of all ages. Never in my brief halcyon existence had the possibility of such an encounter come into my mind. My purpose was to satisfy hunger, but clearly, I was to satisfy some other need of this woman, and customer satisfaction was an inviolable conviction in my very being. I was a creation of the finest American fast food, a product of the most rigorous engineering,
and the only thing I knew how to do was to bring joy and satisfaction. If the woman desired that, then it must be so.
She took me in hand again, and with a firm grip, brought me to her nether regions, where a warmth spread into me, and a fluid emanating from her spread onto my buns. Her grip tightened, crushing me slightly, mashing me against her orifice, disrupting my delicate symmetry that was crafted by the expertise of the skilled worker in the kitchen where I was born. I was smeared