Ill Take The Number 3

I enter the fast food restaurant. It is ornate, and it is white. The employees wear white uniforms, identical to that of milkmen in the 1920's, from the paper hats, down to the black, shiny Doc Martens. I am about to order the number three, the hamburger, french fries, and medium drink. I look at the menu, and then look straight ahead. He is right in front of me.

I try to look at him as a stranger, as a mere food service worker whose sole purpose is to take my order and swipe my debit card. But I look into those eyes and realize I cannot do so. Those were the first pair of eyes to look at me, and see me as beautiful. Those were the eyes that looked into mine, while the lips spoke, "I love you". And those were the eyes, that I looked into, when I romantically removed my clothes, for the first time. We were eighteen then, and, after we chose different career paths (he, attending the local fire academy, to become a firefighter, and I, attending college in Seattle, studying to become a nurse), our relationship struck an unresolved ending. We did not speak. We did not write to each other. We had not seen each other since our high school graduation.

Until tonight, one year later.

All of a sudden, the restaurant is empty. It is only me, and it is only him. A thick counter stands between us. This does not stop me from crawling over to him. I am standing in front of him, there is nothing in between us. We look into each others' eyes for about a minute, not knowing what to do, or what to say. I do what my primal instincts tell me to do: I kiss him, as I kissed him many times before.

"What can I get for you today?" he says, standing at the cash register. His coworkers move furiously around him, and a long line of people behind me wait impatiently.

We are alone again. We continue to kiss, to stroke, to pet each others' upper body regions. He is rubbing my breasts, and I lightly run my fingers upon his rock hard stomach. I untuck his clean shirt, remove it from his body, and throw it upon the stove. It begins to burn, but I do not care. He does not either. I remove my cream colored shirt, revealing my small, but perky, tits and he touches my nipples in a circular motion, and begins to suck on them. His tongue moves swiftly, up and down upon them, and I feel a tingling rush throughout my veins. I begin to feel hot, and my makeup smears. I throw my head back and let out a loud, feminine moan.

"How about the number 3. Only lettuce and tomato on the burger, please."

I move downward, and fall to my knees. His shoes shine in the bright overhead lights. Albeit the messy work environment, his white uniform remains clean, as though it were untouched. So I touch him, groping his crotch. He bears a look of excitement. I undo the leather belt, ripping it off within seconds. I unbutton, unzip his pants, and yank them down to his ankles. His long, hard cock is visible through his thin, white boxers. I pull it out, and grasp it firmly with my hand. I slowly move my hand upon his penis, starting lightly, but, then, grasping it tighter. He lets out short, content grunts as I do so. I touch my lips upon it, giving it one light kiss. I then run my tongue upon the cock, all nine inches of it. I place it inside my mouth, sucking it as I would suck on a dreamsicle in the summertime. "Yesssssssssssssssssssssss...." He lets out, moaning.

"Oh," I add, "And don't forget to include ketchup packets." He flashes a quick smile.

We are naked. I sit upon the counter and he walks toward me, his cock erect. I look him in those eyes, the eyes I had looked into so many times before, and we kiss once again. It is time. He directs his cock into my vagina, and begins to thrust.

"Debit or credit?"

He thrusts harder. I feel hot, and it feels as though a peaceful fire swims inside my blood.

"Debit"

He thrusts faster. I am moaning loudly, almost screaming, out of joy and passion.

"Your total will be $4.15. You are order number 69."

I climax. I am alive.

"Thank you."