Chapter 2: Burrito Blastoff
Three days had passed since the burrito bowl. The memory of it played in Hyunjin’s mind on a dirty, thrilling loop.He’d wake up hard, the phantom smell of cumin and sex in his nostrils. He’d gone through his shifts at the Taqueria Mazatlán like a ghost, performing the motions—grilling chicken, portioning guacamole, nodding at customer requests—while his real attention turned inward, coiled tight around that secret.
It was a Thursday, and the evening crowd had thinned to a trickle. The dining room was a sepia-toned aquarium under the dimmed overhead lights. From his post by the steam table, he could see a teenager listlessly mopping the vinyl floor, the squeegee making a soft, sticky sound as it dragged over dried pico de gallo stains. The kitchen behind him was in its end-of-night rhythm: the metallic clang of sheet pans being stacked, the rush of hot water into the industrial sink, the tired, shorthand Spanish of the closing crew.
His manager, a weary-faced man named Carlos, leaned against the pass-through window. “Hyunjin, when you’re done wiping that down, just clock out.We’re good.”
“Yeah, sure,” Hyunjin replied, his voice casual. He ran a damp rag over the polished metal of the steam table, its surface still faintly warm.The sneeze guard glass was smeared with fingerprints. Beneath it, the stainless steel pans of food simmered under heated lamps.Shredded beef bubbled in its own reddish grease. The chicken had developed a few dry, crispy edges. The rice, once fluffy, now formed a slight crust.The urge wasn’t a slow burn this time. It was a sudden, violent yank behind his navel. It came as he watched Carlos turn and walk back towards the office, the keys on his belt jingling. It came as the kid with the mop pushed his bucket through the double doors to the back. For a moment, he was alone on the line.His gaze fell on the last burrito of the night. It sat on a cutting board by the tortilla press, a foil-wrapped cylinder waiting to be bagged for a drive-thru order that had, perhaps, already driven away. It was imperfect, one end torn slightly so a clump of beans peeked out like a dark, guilty secret.
The throb in his jeans was immediate, a demanding, painful swelling that felt like it would split the seam.His mouth watered. His fingers tingled.The risk was higher now.People were still here, just in the back. The mop kid could return.Carlos could walk out with the deposit bag. But the danger was the point, wasn’t it?The filth of it was the entire fucking point.
He didn’t slip under the counter. He stood right there, shielded only by the high bulk of the steam table itself.His hands moved with a practiced, furtive speed.Button. Zipper.The sigh of denim giving way. He pushed his boxers down and his cock sprang out, already so fully erect it lay against his stomach, a heavy, veined weight. A single, clear pearl of precum beaded at the tip.He spat into his palm. The sound was wet and private in the hum of the kitchen. He smeared it over the head, the slickness cold for just a second before his body heat warmed it.He wrapped his fist around his shaft. A sharp, silent gasp escaped him.
He started to stroke, his eyes locked on the torn burrito.The rhythm was slow and tense, every muscle in his forearm corded. He could hear the faint shhhh of his own skin moving. The smell of his precum, a sharp, saline musk, rose to mingle with the odors of seasoned meat and slow-cooked beans.
He leaned his left elbow on the cool steel of the table, trying to look nonchalant from the waist up.A customer walking in would see a pensive employee, staring into the kitchen. From the waist down, his hips began a shallow, involuntary thrust into his own tight fist.
He sped up. The sensation built, a hot wire tightening from his balls to the base of his spine.His breath hitched. He bit the inside of his cheek, the pain a bright, clarifying counterpoint to the gathering pleasure. The imagined scenario consumed him: some unsuspecting person, maybe that tired-looking nurse from the hospital down the street, taking a big, hungry bite. His cum, warm and thick, mixing with the sour cream and guacamole. The violation was so complete it made his head swim.
The click-thud of the walk-in freezer door echoed from the back.Voices approached. He froze, his fist stilling at the base of his cock, which twitched angrily in his grip.His heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted out.
“—so then she said I had to cover his shift, and I was like, ‘hell no, I got plans,’” a voice said.It was Miguel, the fry cook.
They were coming towards the front, towards him.Panic, cold and slick, poured down his spine. But it was layered with something else, a darker, more potent exhilaration.He was exposed. He was so utterly caught.
He yanked his shirt down, the soft cotton draping over his groin, hiding his hardened length and his gripping hand. He kept stroking under the fabric, the motion hidden but no less frantic. The friction of the shirt over the sensitive head was maddening, rough and delicious.
Miguel and the dishwasher, a guy named Leo, emerged from the back hallway.They were headed for the time clock near the front door.
“Hey, you still here?” Miguel called, not really looking at him.
“Just finishing up,” Hyunjin managed, his voice strangled. He kept his face turned towards the steam table, as if studying the condensation on the beef pan.He heard their footsteps recede towards the dining room. They were thirty feet away, talking, distracted.It was enough.The need crested, violent and undeniable. He couldn’t wait.He wouldn’t. He shuffled half a step to his left, putting the cutting board with the burrito directly in front of him. He freed his cock from his shirt, the air cool on the wet, heated skin.He aimed.
The first spurt wasn’t a jet, but a thick, heavy glob that arced through the fluorescent light and landed with a soft plop right on the exposed lump of beans.It was pearlescent, opaque. The second pulse was stronger, a rope that splashed across the rice and shredded cheese visible through the tear. He choked back a groan, his entire body rigid, his knuckles white where he gripped the steel table edge.His hips jerked forward, fucking empty air as he emptied himself onto the meal.
Rope after hot, creamy rope lashed the burrito. It dripped over the side of the foil, pooled in the crevices of the tortilla folds. His balls clenched, drawn up tight, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. A final, weaker ooze seeped from his tip and dripped onto the cutting board.He stood there, shuddering, spent. The smell was overpowering—salted, animal, his.Footsteps again, quicker now. Miguel and Leo were leaving.“Later, man,” Leo called out.
“Yeah, later,” Hyunjin rasped, not turning around.The front door chimed, then sighed shut. The lock engaged with a heavy, final thunk.Silence, save for the low hum of the refrigeration units.
He looked down at his work. The cum glistened, a viscous glaze seeping into the warm ingredients.It was grotesque.It was perfect.
With trembling, post-coital hands, he tucked himself away, the dampness uncomfortable and shameful. He grabbed a clean piece of foil from the roll.He didn’t wipe the burrito.He didn’t clean it up. Instead, with a meticulous, almost reverent care, he folded the new foil over the mess, sealing his load inside.He smoothed the ends, shaping it back into a pristine, anonymous cylinder.
He picked it up.It was warm.Heavy.
He carried it to the pick-up station and placed it in a paper bag.He folded the top of the bag neatly. He wrote on the side with a black Sharpie: DRIVE-THRU - 9:47 PM.
For a long moment, he just stared at it. A cold, dead feeling settled in his stomach, right alongside the fading embers of thrill.What was wrong with him?This wasn’t just a kink. This was something broken.Then the back door to the kitchen banged open. Carlos emerged, zipping up his jacket.“You still messing with that burrito?Leave it. The night crew will trash it if no one picks it up. Let’s go.”
“Right,” Hyunjin said.He followed Carlos out, not looking back at the bag. As they stepped into the cool night air, Carlos lit a cigarette.“You alright, man? You seem spaced out.”
“Just tired,” Hyunjin said.He wasn’t tired.He was vibrating on a different frequency. The world outside the restaurant—the smell of car exhaust, the distant whine of a police siren, the bland conformity of the strip mall parking lot—felt insubstantial. The real world was back inside, sealed in foil, waiting.
He drove home, the events playing in his mind not with guilt, but with a clinical, obsessive focus.The way the cum had looked on the dark beans. The sound it made.The risk.Next time, he thought. Next time he would…
He didn’t finish the thought.He let it hang, a dark promise.
The next day was his day off.The emptiness of his apartment was suffocating. He tried to game, but the controller felt inert in his hands.He scrolled through his phone, seeing nothing. His body was restless, twitchy.The memory of release was a dull ache, a hunger that was already returning.
By late afternoon, he was driving, aimlessly at first, then with a gathering purpose. He found himself in the cavernous, overlit aisle of a massive grocery store. It was a sterile temple of consumption. The floors were shiny, the music was saccharine, and the air smelled of recycled air and faintly of rot from the floral section.
He pushed a cart, not because he needed anything, but because it gave him something to hold onto. He meandered through produce, past the pyramids of glossy apples and fragrant strawberries.He ended up in the bakery section.
The heat lamps here glowed with a false, cozy warmth.Racks of bread cooled on wire shelves. A young woman in a hairnet was loading trays of cookie dough into a large industrial oven. To the side was a long metal table dusted with flour. On it sat a half-filled case of freshly baked dinner rolls, golden brown and puffy, waiting to be bagged. The employee turned, slid the tray into the oven, and then walked through a swinging door marked ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY,’ letting it sigh shut behind her.He was alone in the bakery alcove.
His heart began a slow, heavy drumming.His palms grew damp against the hard plastic of the cart handle. The rolls.They were so uniform.So innocent. They sat in their cardboard case, warm from the oven, smelling of yeast and comfort.A different kind of risk.Wide open aisles. Security cameras dangling from the ceiling like bald, unblinking heads. Shoppers pushing carts past the endcap, mere yards away.The pull was magnetic.It was stupid.It was inevitable.
He left his cart parked near a display of muffin mixes and walked casually to the metal table. He leaned against it, pretending to examine a placard about whole grain flour. With his right hand, he unbuttoned his jeans. He didn’t push them down; he just freed himself through the fly, the stiff denim framing his cock. It was already thickening, responding to the sheer audacity of the act.He spit into his hand, the gesture quick and covert. He grasped himself, giving a few slow, deliberate pulls.The flour-dusted stainless steel was cool against his other forearm. He looked at the rolls.He thought about a family at dinner, passing the bread basket. A kid grabbing one, tearing into the soft, steaming interior.
He began to stroke in earnest, his breath coming faster.This was sharper, more frightening than the kitchen. An old woman rounded the corner, scrutinizing a jar of raspberry preserves. Hyunjin stopped moving, his hand still wrapped around his shaft.He looked down at the nutritional information on the placard as if transfixed. She moved on.
The near-miss sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, straight to his groin.He was fully hard now, painfully so. He resumed, his fist a tight, punishing piston. Pre-cum slicked his way, the filthy, rhythmic sound lost in the store's Muzak.He was getting close.The pressure built, a familiar, urgent tide. He shifted, angling his hips.He wasn't going to cum on just one. He wanted to defile the whole batch.With a stifled grunt, he came.
The first shot hit the side of the cardboard case, a white streak against the brown. The second, stronger pulse landed on the nearest roll, soaking into the golden crust. He jerked, his body convulsing, as he painted three, four, five of the warm, soft rolls with thick, opaque streaks of his seed. It pooled in the hollows between them, dripped down the side of the case onto the table. The smell, sharp and organic, cut through the bakery sweetness.
He finished, gasping, his legs weak.He quickly stuffed himself back into his jeans, zipping up with fumbling fingers. He wiped his hand on the dark fabric of his pants.He didn't look back. He walked swiftly away, past his abandoned cart, towards the electric doors and the fading daylight.
As he pushed out into the parking lot, the normalcy of the scene felt like a slap. A minivan loaded with groceries.A kid crying for candy.He fumbled for his keys, his hand sticky.
He drove, windows down, the cool air washing over his burning face.The high was different this time. It wasn't a satisfied buzz.It was jagged, frenetic. It felt less like a release and more like a trigger being pulled. He was deep in the woods now, and he had no desire to find his way back. The path was dark, and it beckoned him further, promising darker, more secret thrills just ahead.The thought was the only thing that calmed his racing heart. There would be a next time.Soon. He just had to decide where.