Sigh. You’ve been here an hour, just sitting in a booth alone in silence, your coach having cancelled practice and having finished all your schoolwork. You wish you could just run around and be productive, but you’ve done just about everything. You consider helping out in the McDonald’s, but you don’t think the employees would appreciate that, stealing their jobs like that.

You huff. You can’t even bother your boyfriend ‘cause he’s working. He’s been working a lot lately—if he’s not with you or at soccer practice, it’s work. Stupid hard working boyfriend. Stupid being born rich.

But, he does look cute in his little work uniform—the black visor atop his head with a big, yellow ‘M’ that has his blond strands of hair sticking out in every which way, down to the black apron tied around his neck and waist that really hugs tightly to his body—it really makes you wanna rip it off just about now. But you can’t—he’s working.

Tch. It’s not even busy; it’s like 9 PM. Surely, it wouldn’t be a problem if you just—

“Babe, come over here,” Nat grumbles, his lean form leaning over the front counter on his forearms. He’s such a delicious sight; eyebags, a small stubble and messy hair. “I got something for you.”

And it’s like he just read your mind.

You slide out of the booth, striding over to where he’s at, curious about what he wants to show you. When you walk behind the counter, he’s biting his lip, grinning slyly, like he knows something you don’t. You furrow your brows at him in a questioning look, tilting your head to the side slightly. His eyes dart downwards, as if wordlessly telling you to take a glance down.

Surely enough, you do—and you’re more than just glancing—you’re gaping. And might I say, you are not disappointed. His black apron is now tented with your favourite piece of meat.

“It’s a special meal on the secret menu just for you called a McDick,” he mutters, voice hushed for the few people still in the restaurant. “You gotta eat it now and in secret because it’s pretty limited time; might not last for long.”

He holds his hands on his hips, leaning his pelvis forward, making the bulge more prominent. “And look, it’s got a special topping.” He’s referring to the frenum (penis) piercing he got done three weeks ago, now fully healed.

He wiggles his hips slightly, jiggling the dangling rod a bit. “So, whaddaya say, baby? Wanna get under the counter for me while I work? Also, don’t worry about the cameras in this place—that shit don’t work.” Now, come on? Who are you to pass up on a free, good, meal?