There was something about the back room of our busy fast food joint that got my dominant juices going -- almost like there was electronic music playing, and St. Andrew's crosses around. But, no, it was that dull fluorescent light. It was a trampy, stale lettuce smelling underbelly of a place. Outside was the fast, smiley, uniformed face of the product; back there were the cast-off containers, smelly sneakers, ledger books, and this silence that was more like the sound of vacuum. The sucking in of sound.

When my workers were back in there, changing into or out of smelly sneakers, asking about their hours, their time off -- they often made me think about the two young perv novices I met at a play party. This couple had wanted me to play the role of their boss, take them in the "back room" (a musty nook around the corner behind the cage) and do untoward things to them. Order them to strip. Order them over my knee. The nubile, barely flowering breasted girl; the sneakered boy with the low sloppy waistband advertising his navel and treasure trail. As my real employee bends over my desk, I often think of my play employee, Andy, how I reached into the band of his low hanging jeans, slid down his butt crack with my fingers and quick, push, entered his hole. Patted his free swinging balls.

Sometimes when my real employee Kylie was back in this room, I remembered how I trapped the play girl Stephanie, in that musty dark corner and felt her up -- clumsy and gropy. I bumped her chest with mine and brushed sideways and hemmed her in while blocking her egress. I never remembered this scene when I was home, on my weekends or evenings. Or even out front in the restaurant when all those perky, tight little girl-butts were wiggling in their sheer skirts and those boy-bulges poked out the baggies. But in our back room… I'd picture how I had ordered young Stephanie to strip, ordered loudly like I was angry. She mustn't have had much role play under her belt. My mood shifts took her by surprise, poor thing. How she'd cowered! How, when I'd got her naked, she tried to cover her small breasts with her elbows and her nervous pussy with her hands. Always one of the other -- breasts or bush -- would be bared, and in frustration the tears streamed down her eyes. I smacked her ass meanly; I pulled her hands away from her breasts and leered at them as she cried. This back room where I work -- so surrounded by commotion and busyness, yet so isolated and quiet, would be a perfect place to reenact that delicious scene. Maybe I should call Stephanie and see if she wants a job, heh-heh.

And Andy. When I reached into his pants, he said something pretend-tough, like "what the fuck," and struggled, as if he could throw me off, until I pinned him like he never knew he could be pinned -- butch-dyke looking though I am. He, too, had quite underestimated his potential for vulnerability in the situation. I hurt his arm to let him know he was pinned, and meanwhile my other hand was all up inside those boy boxers of his, where he was moist from the sweat of his curlies. He cursed all tough like while I helped myself into his virgin hole. We had negotiated this scene; he had intended to push this boundary; he wanted to be forced to go where he didn't want to go. But tears overtook his eyes anyway, silent -- not like the whimpering Kylie's -- silently uncontrollable. Neither of them used their safe word; but stuff had come up. They cried and I fucked them nicely for it. And their submission made me feel a rush of power. Sigh...

Wicked memories. They haunted our back room like ghosts and they got into my head when I was in there. I'm saying it was the room. Not me, the room.

Now, I'm not some lonely, warped bull dyke. I have a girlfriend. A sweet switch of a sub. I mean, she's my sub, but she often likes to top the boys and girls we play with on occasion. She's more of a girlie type. She comes into the joint and flirts with all the kids that work here and she's hot with her bouncy full head of thick dark hair, her tight gym-firm tush and solid brown arms. And those extra thick lips that drives everyone nuts these days. Oh, and I forgot eyelashes. She bats them and they're really thick and pretty and -- oh and the dimpled smile and full white teeth... Never mind.

So she can get away with coming in and feeling up the guys, and they pat her on the ass, and everyone knows we're bi and the girls don't even mind when she pats them on the ass too. A couple of them she introduced to me when I was hiring. She's a few years younger. We're in our mid-twenties, and most of the kids in this place are just out of high school, 19 or 20, so we seem older and so in-the-know to them.

But I don't play around with them much. I don't know, maybe that's part of my problem. I'm their boss, so I feel like I have to reserve space to be tough. And then there's… well I'm a big heifer of a chick. Big locomotive ass, tall, "big-boned," as they say, with dense muscular arms, and swaying heaps of breasts. The kind of breasts that could smother some of these young anorexics to death while lovemaking, without even noticing. "Was it good for you, baby?...

...Baby?"

But she's out cold, tit choked, just like that. Yeah, yeah, my girl Holly tells me I just got a complex and I'm beautiful. But even if I thought I was gorgeous as hell, don't think I could flirt. I don't flirt. That's it. Just not my style.

Anyway, so after I had this nasty case of the back room memories... I was in a corner of the room trying to fit these pieces of tile back into the floor where someone had kicked them up, when two of my young employees, Lynn and Jeremy, came in holding hands. They didn't know I was back there in the shadows.

[To be continued...]