Beefy Buns

byCal Y. Pygia©

It's hard to get good help. Probably, that's true in any business, but it's especially difficult to find decent employees in the fast food racket. Believe me; I've tried.

I manage the local Beefy Buns franchise--burgers, fries, and shakes is our mainstay, but the menu also features fish and chicken. Recently, the company added salads and tacos. I guess, before long, they'll include pizza and roast beef sandwiches, too. The district manager, Mr. Moore, says the corporate goal is to feature food from all our competitors' menus.

Other than a paycheck and free meals, we don't offer employees much in the way of incentives to work for us. No life, medical, dental, or eye insurance. Few raises. Almost no opportunity for advancement. Who wouldn't want to work for us, right? So you can see why it's hard to find good help. For the most part, Beefy Buns' applicants are bottom of the barrel.

Mona Lee is an exception.

In every way.

She's a real find.

And sexy, too.

She started in May, and she's become indispensable. I gave her three raises and made her the day shift manager. Most days, our schedules overlap from noon, when I come on duty, to two o'clock in the afternoon, when she leaves, mostly so I can get an eyeful of her rack and booty. Mona's built. She's tall for a girl--or for a woman, I should say--and slender--willowy--with blonde hair to her shoulders; big, blue eyes; a tiny, cute-as-a-button nose; full, sensuous lips; a delicate chin; high, full, round breasts; a concave tummy; killer legs; and an ass that gets me hard every time I see it sashaying around behind the counter--especially after I got a glimpse of her panties while she was cleaning off the top of the meat locker one afternoon last month (which is exactly what I'd hoped to see when I asked her to clean it). The sight of her on the ladder, the mini-skirt portion of her uniform showing off her smooth, shapely legs and the hot-pink thong panties that exposed as much as they concealed of her gorgeous ass is burned into my memory forever, thank God.

I'm an ass man. Having chanced to see her beautiful buttocks once, I was obsessed with the desire--the need--to view them again, and I devised one ploy after another by which I might satisfy my craving to view her splendid bottom another time.

"Mona," I directed her one afternoon, "take the step ladder--the tall one--outside, and wash the windows. They're filthy."

She gave me an odd look. "Carlos just washed them two days ago."

"He did a terrible job. They're grimy."

She shrugged, but her expression showed me that she thought I was daft, for, in truth, the windows were clean enough. "I'll need help getting the ladder outdoors," she said. "It's cumbersome and heavy. Someone needs to keep the ladder steady, too, while I'm using it."

I rolled my eyes, as if her comments were asinine. In a long-suffering tone, complete with a put-upon expression, I relied, "I'll assist you." Indeed, my providing just such "assistance" had been my purpose, all along, in assigning her the window-cleaning task.

"But you're busy," Mona protested. "Shouldn't you assign Carlos to give me a hand?"

"Carlos is better use to me in cleaning the restrooms," I answered, "unless you'd prefer to switch tasks with him." I knew she wouldn't. Everyone dislikes cleaning the toilets and urinals, but Mona, above all, detests this chore.

"No, no," she demurred. "I'd rather wash the windows."

"Let's get to it, then," I said.

Outside, the day was unusually bright, and the sunlight sparkled on the windows, which, as Mona had reminded me, Carlos had just cleaned two days ago. He'd done an excellent job. The windows were spotless, except for the dried dribble of a pigeon's droppings. I pointed out the white trail, a disgusted tone in my voice as I told Mona, "Carlos has done his usual half-assed job."

"The pigeon could have relieved itself after Carlos washed the windows," Mona observed.

"'Could have' are the operative words," I replied. I wasted no more time in helping Mona to set up the stepladder. I was desperate to see her splendid ass again, and I was hoping that she was wearing a thong, as she had been the first time I'd glimpsed her derriere while she'd been cleaning the top of the meat locker.

"Go on up," I told her, once the ladder was in place. "I'll hold the ladder for you."

"Aren't you going up?" she asked.

"I'm afraid of heights."

"But I've seen you on the ladder before."

"The fear came on recently."

She gave me a doubtful look. "I'm wearing heels."

"Okay, I'll get Carlos to swap with you. He can wash the windows, and you can finish cleaning the toilets."

"No," Mona said. "I'll just take of my shoes."

Why stop with the heels? I asked her silently.

In a moment, she'd removed her shoes. Her feet, clad only in her stockings, looked cute and dainty.

"Hold the ladder," Mona said.

I gripped it. "Go ahead."

I watched her as she ascended, taking one hesitant step up the rungs of the ladder after another, climbing toward the huge, blinking neon sign that shouted the name of the burger franchise, Beefy Buns, to a world of hungry human carnivores.

I counted her steps: one (what pretty feet!), two (and shapely calves!), three (the hollows of her knees were sensuous depressions!), four (the backs of her flexing thighs, smooth but firm, were enticing!), five--

"Boss?"

I turned to see Carlos standing in the doorway.

"What is it?" I demanded, a little too sharply. "Why aren't you cleaning the restrooms?"

"I finished," he explained. "Mr. Moore is here; he sent me to fetch you."

"Fetch," I thought, was most likely the exact word that Mr. Moore, the bastard, had employed. The district manager was an arrogant, condescending son-of-a-bitch.

I glanced up the ladder. The bottom hem of Mona's mini-skirt showed the very tops of her sleek, creamy thighs, but not yet her ass cheeks. Another step or two surely would have disclosed those smooth, alabaster orbs and, perhaps, the thin strip of satin that ran between them to connect with the waistband of her panties.

"Come down," I told her, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "We'll finish this later."

Mr. Moore had come to check our sales figures, which weren't as impressive as either the restaurant's owners, Fern and Fernando Marcus, or the corporate chain's headquarters would like. Of course, like everything else that any of these parties perceived as being wrong with operations was concerned, it was my fault, personally, that the public seemed to be spurning the local Beefy Buns. For the thousandth time, I pointed out to Mr. Moore that the opening of a McDonald's and a Burger King within six blocks of Beefy Buns were more likely causes of the decline in our sales.

"Contributing causes, perhaps," Mr. Moore said.

We'd repaired to my "office," a room not much larger than a broom closet, occupied by a desk and a file cabinet. Mr. Moore sat behind my desk; I stood in the open doorway. Outside, it would be easy for the employees to hear everything that Mr. Moore or I said, which, I knew, sooner or later, would be humiliating. Mr. Moore had come to "motivate" me, and he knew only one technique--mortification.

"Prior to their opening, sales were huge," I pointed out to my superior, although, I knew, a recitation of facts would serve no purpose.

"And they can be again, Brad" he replied. "What are you doing to beef up sales?"

He always liked to use the term "beef up" in relation to improving Beefy Buns' burger sales. In his own way, Mr. Moore had a sense of humor, albeit a sophomoric one.

As he well knew, there was precious little--nothing, in fact--that I could do to promote sales. The corporation handled all promotions and advertising. I had to think of something, though; Mr. Moore was waiting for my answer.

"Uh," I thought of Mona on the stepladder, a step or two away from revealing the glory of her magnificent ass to me. "I'm going to have employees stand on the sidewalk, near the street, and wave a Beefy Buns sign showing a picture of a huge, succulent Beefy Buns Beefy Burger, with fries, that reads, 'Whet your appetite.'" This was the dumbest thing I'd ever said in response to one of Mr. Moore's interrogations, and I fully expected him to lambaste me for it.

At my desk, he'd tented his fingers. Now, he flexed his thumbs as he chewed over my suggestion in his mind. I waited, reminding myself not to wince when he let me have it. Instead, after a lengthy silence, he announced, "I like it!"

I was astonished. "You do?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Put the skinny blonde on it," he directed.

She's not "skinny," I wanted to tell him; she's "willowy." "You got it," I said.

For once, the bastard hadn't chastised me before my employees. Nevertheless, when he navigated his bulk out of my office and through the exit, crossed the parking lot, and lowered himself into his Lexus, no doubt putting a tremendous strain on its shock absorbers, I was glad to see him go.

I went to the counter, where Mona had assumed her station at the cash register again and was waiting on customers. I asked Sandra Smith, a pimply-face redhead with way too many freckles and unintentionally comical, oversize spectacles with thick lenses, to spell Mona. "Come with me," I told the latter.

"Back to the ladder?" she asked.

"Yes." I had no intention of putting Mona--or anyone else--to work in the manner I'd suggested to Mr. Moore. I was shorthanded already, and there was no way I was going to station an employee--and especially not one as good looking and sexy as Mona--on the sidewalk when he or she could be better employed in the kitchen.

As we were on our way out of the restaurant, I received a call on my cell phone. It was Mr. Moore, with a parting shot. "Get somebody to clean up the parking lot," he commanded. "It's littered with Beefy Buns wrappers!"

"Yes, sir," I replied, adding, in my mind, bastard!

The ladder was still in place, right where we'd left it.

"Go on up," I told Mona. "I'll hold the ladder."

She kicked off her shoes again. "Make sure you do," she said. "I don't want to fall."

"You're not going to fall," I assured her. In my mind, though, I saw her do just that, and, gallantly, I caught her in my arms and set her safely on the ground. My reward was a kiss of her soft, smooth lips.

She ascended the ladder again, displaying more and more of her shapely legs as she climbed higher and higher, her mini-skirt threatening to betray her with every step she took.

My cell phone chimed.

I'd ignore it, I thought.

The phone was insistent.

What if were Mr. Moore again? I asked myself. He'd be pissed if I didn't answer. Hell, he might even return to the restaurant.

I removed the phone from my pocket and glanced at the number on its illuminated display. It was Mr. Moore, all right. "Hello?"

"What are you doing with that damned ladder?" he thundered in my ear. Obviously, upon leaving the parking lot, he'd parked somewhere nearby and was spying on me, the bastard! "I thought I told you to get that parking lot cleaned up! And why isn't the girl on the sidewalk with the sign?"

"I thought we'd better finish the windows before--"

"I can see why your location's in trouble, Brad," Mr. Moore cut in. "You don't know how to set priorities--and you don't follow instructions. Besides, those windows are already clean. It looks as if someone washed them only a day or two ago."

The son-of-a-bitch was detail-oriented and observant; I had to give him that. "Yes, sir," I told him. I'd better do as he said, I thought. After all, he was my boss and, obviously, he was watching me.

"Come down," I called up the ladder, reluctantly, as I saw how perilously close the bottom hem of Mona's mini-skirt had come, a second time, to revealing her splendid ass.

"Again?" she complained.

"Mr. Moore just called. He wants us to pick up the litter in the parking lot and to do something else."

She descended the ladder and donned her heels again, looking lovelier than ever. She was obviously glad to have her dainty feet back on terra firma.

"What else does he want us to do, besides picking up the litter?" she asked.

I told her.

"No," she said. "I won't do it."

"Yes, you will."

"No, I won't," Mona insisted, "not even if it costs me my job."

"It might," I warned her. "Mr. Moore's parked somewhere nearby, and he's watching us."

She gave me a look that suggested I'd gone insane. "What?"

I repeated myself. "He's watching, and he expects to see you waving a sign on the street corner, advertising Beefy Buns' Beefy Burger."

"I'm not a whore," she declared, her eyes flashing, "and I'm not standing on any street corner."

"No one said you're a whore," I protested.

"I'm not doing it," she said, determination, like steel, in her refusal.

"But Mr. Moore's watching."

"He's not the only one who's been watching me, is he?" she asked frostily.

"What do you mean?"

"You think I'm blind as well as blonde?" she demanded. "I've seen you ogling me, staring at my tits and ass."

In any other context, her use of such words would have been exciting. Somehow, as we stood in the littered parking lot, next to the step ladder positioned along the back wall of Beefy Buns, Mr. Moore maybe still watching us from a distance, these terms--and the implicit charge of sexual harassment behind them--made me nervous.

Sexual harassment? Was that really where she was going with this? I wondered. "What do you mean?" I managed to blurt, affecting innocence. I even managed to sound confused and wounded, as if the thought of looking at her breasts and buttocks had never crossed my mind.

"You don't think I know why you had me clean the top of the meat locker?" she demanded. "You think I'm too dumb to know why you wanted me to clean the same windows Carlos just cleaned two days ago? You think I'm unaware of your studying my ass from behind your desk as I wait on customers behind the counter?"

"I don't know what you mean," I told her.

"Then, let me make it clear for you," she said. "You're a voyeur."

"I'm nothing of the kind! That's the most preposterous--"

"You've subjected me to sexual harassment since I started working her," Mona contended, "and it stops here and now."

"I've never--"

"I have witnesses who will collaborate my allegations."

"Witnesses? Who?"

"You'll know their identities soon enough, if I have to go to court to get you to treat me like a human being instead of a piece of meat."

"Court?" I cried. "There's no need to go to court. Mona, really--"

"And I'm not walking the street with a Burger Buns sign."

The district manager might still be parked nearby, waiting to see Mona with the sign, I thought. On the other hand, he might have continued his journey by now. He might be well on his way to humiliating the manager of the next Beefy Buns on his route. "But what will I tell Mr. Moore?"

"Tell him I may have to work cheap, but I'm not a two-bit whore."

Thankfully, I never received another call from him. He must have been content to resume his rounds after telling me how to run my restaurant.

Later, a few minutes before my shift ended, Mona appeared in my office doorway. "I need some help in the meat locker," she informed me, her voice as frosty as the interior of the freezer to which she'd just alluded. Her gaze was cold, too. If I wasn't careful, she'd be running the place, I thought, and I'd be taking orders from her.

"What's wrong?" I asked brusquely.

"Nothing's wrong," she assured me. "I just need a hand."

"Can't Carlos or Sandra or someone else--?"

"No. I need you."

I sighed. "All right."

Standing, I left my office, crossed the kitchen, and made my way, behind Mona, to the meat locker, making a concerted effort not to watch her swaying bottom. What had prompted this impromptu meeting? I wondered. Had Mona decided to charge me with sexual harassment, after all?

Mona opened the heavy metal door, and I followed her into the meat locker. The term, in our case, was a bit of a misnomer, for the walk-in freezer didn't contain hanging sides of beef or other openly displayed frozen animal carcasses. There was plenty of raw hamburger, pre-packaged chicken, and frozen fish, all conveniently sliced and diced in advance, of course, but, like the frozen French fries, the meat was packaged inside pristine white containers--cardboard boxes, plastic tubs, and cartons, and these items were neatly stacked on rows of sturdy metal shelves. Despite the aromatic scents that permeated the kitchen, the meat locker displayed little evidence that this was a place dedicated to the wholesale serving of slaughtered animals.

"I don't really need help," Mona told me.

Her nipples were rigid from the cold, and stood out beneath the thin fabric of her Beefy Buns blouse. After noticing them, I averted my eyes. I didn't need to give her any more evidence of my "sexual harassment" of her. "Then why are we here?"

"I wanted to show you something," she said.

We'd walked to the rear of the meat locker, stepping behind the end of one of the rows of package-laden shelves. She'd stood aside so that I could precede her, and, now, I realized, she quite literally had my back to the wall. "What?" I asked, a little nervously.

She slid the zipper at the side of her mini-skirt down, in one, fluid motion. Grasping the sides of the garment's elastic waistband, she tugged the skirt down her hips, revealing the lavender silk of her panties.

"Mona!" I cried. "What the hell are you doing?"

She chuckled at my protest. "Don't sound so outraged. You've been wanting to see me naked for months now, ever since the day you first laid eyes on me." She lowered her panties, and my eyes widened.

I stared at her groin, my mouth gaping. "What the hell?"

In place of the cleft of the female sex I expected to see, Mona had revealed a small, circumcised cock, which dangled before a pair of balls high inside the tight pouch of their scrotum. The cold temperature of the meat locker, no doubt, had caused her genitals to contract, just as my own organs had done, but there was no mistaking their masculinity, their virility: Mona, despite appearances to the contrary, wasn't a she; she was a he--or a he-she, I guess--a shemale.

She grinned at me as my eyes traveled back and forth between her firm, high, round breasts and their stiff-standing nipples and the cute cock and balls dangling, like ornaments, below her downy pubes. Cute? Had I characterized her genitals as cute?

How the hell could I think a cock and a pair of balls could be "cute"? What was I, a faggot?

"Are you still interested in me?" Mona asked. "Are you still as anxious to see me naked, now that you know my little secret?"

It's not that little, I wanted to tell her, but I remained silent, not knowing, really, what to say.

My mind raced, as I tried to figure out her purpose. She'd accused me of sexually harassing her; yet, here she stood, exposing herself to me. Was she gathering ammunition for a lawsuit? Would she say I'd been the one to pull her skirt and panties down in the meat locker, claiming, maybe, that I'd attempted to rape her? Was she merely turning the tables on me, playing the predator instead of the prey, to give me a taste, as it were, of my own medicine? Or had she set me up as someone who'd harassed her sexually so she could harass me the same way, with impunity? If I said anything about this incident, she could deny it ever happened--or say I'd assaulted her--but if, on the other hand, I didn't object, she'd have seduced me and gained a companion, a sex partner, a boyfriend, or whatever it was she might be seeking.

Pirouetting, she showed me the loveliness of her creamy, smooth backside. In my imagination, I held her full, round buttocks in my hands, squeezed the smooth-soft cushions of her ass-cheeks in my flexing fingers, making deep indentations in her tanned flesh, and parted the mounds to examine the tight, puckered anus hidden within the deep cleavage between those glorious orbs. Despite the cold temperature, my cock twitched, stiffening and swelling inside the trousers of my Beefy Buns uniform. "Well, what about it?" she prompted me. "Do you like what you see?"

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