The Plum in McDonald’s
Elijah Rasin sat hunched over the scratched laminate table in the corner of the McDonald’s, the hum of the ice machine a constant, vibrating backdrop to his illicit activity. At thirty years old, with a salary of a hundred thousand dollars a year as a remote customer service representative, he could afford better, but the anonymity of the fast-food joint suited his current purpose. He picked at a stray fry, his stomach settled, his meal finished five minutes ago. Now, he waited for digestion to run its course before the commute back to his apartment. To pass the time, he held his iPhone low in his lap, shielded from the prying eyes of the families and shift-workers by the angle of his body.
The screen glowed with white text against a black background, a stark contrast to the bright, sterile lighting of the restaurant. He scrolled slowly, his thumb moving with deliberate precision. The story was a particular favorite of his—a heavy dose of CP, BDSM, and femdom. The protagonist, a man with a soft jawline and a tendency to blush, stood in the center of a plush corporate office. Elijah read the words intently, visualizing the scene. The female boss in the story circled the man, her voice a low purr as she explained her unique management style. She didn’t want macho posturing or the invincible charade so many men strutted around the office like peacocks. She preferred vulnerability. She preferred the baby face.
"I won't fire you," the text read, the dialogue jumping out at Elijah. "And I certainly won't send you to HR. Instead, I’ll roast your cute little bum right here in this office anytime you mess up. Do we understand each other?"
Elijah shifted in his seat, a familiar tightness gathering in his groin. He reached for his soda, taking a long sip to cool the flush rising on his peanut-butter colored skin. He ran a hand through his blonde mop-top, the hair cut short and standing upright right above his blonde eyebrows—a genetic gift from his white French-Haitian mother that contrasted sharply with the darker complexion inherited from his father. He felt the thrill of the fantasy, the idea of a woman stripping away the performance of masculinity to demand something rawer.
"So you’re into kinky stuff?!"
The voice was close, too close, slicing through the ambient noise of the restaurant like a knife. Elijah’s thumb slipped, the phone screen flickering as he nearly dropped the device. He slammed it face down on the table, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked up, his hazel eyes wide with panic.
Standing over him was a woman who commanded the air around the plastic table. She was tall, her skin the color of cinnamon sugar, warm and radiant. Her hair was a cascade of jet black, pulled back into a severe, waist-length ponytail that swayed slightly as she moved. She wore the standard black pants and black hat of the crew, but her shirt was a vibrant, commanding red, marking her authority instantly.
Elijah opened his mouth, his throat dry, but no sound came out. He looked for an escape, but the woman’s presence pinned him in place. She leaned in, resting a hand on the back of the empty booth opposite him. Her eyes were a startling, piercing turquoise, locking onto his with an intensity that made his breath hitch.
"Don't be afraid," she said, her voice dropping an octave, losing the public volume of her initial outburst. She smiled, a curve of lips that was knowing rather than mocking. "I see the concern on your face. There’s nothing wrong with liking that type of stuff. I hate the stigma as much as I’m sure you do."
Elijah blinked, his shoulders dropping an inch. The tension in his neck didn't vanish, but the immediate terror of being exposed faded into a wary confusion. He looked at her name tag, but it was obscured by the angle of her body.
She tilted her head, studying him, her gaze drifting over his blonde hair and his features. "I have to ask you seriously, though," she continued, her tone shifting from reassuring to inquisitive.
"Do you see anything wrong with a man showing vulnerability to a woman?"
Elijah swallowed hard. He looked at the table, then back up at her turquoise eyes. The question hung in the air, heavy and significant. He thought about the story on his phone, about the fantasy of surrendering control.
“No," he whispered, the word barely audible over the restaurant's music system.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said. She straightened up, the movement fluid and graceful. She glanced around the bustling restaurant, ensuring no one was watching their specific interaction, then leaned down close to Elijah’s ear. Her scent washed over him—something floral and spicy, matching her skin tone.
“I really want to experience it," she breathed, her voice a secret shared only between them.
"What’s in that book you’re reading. Follow me."
She didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked away, the red shirt a beacon amidst the sea of green uniforms worn by the other employees. Elijah sat frozen for a heartbeat, his mind racing. He looked at his phone, then at her retreating back. The logical part of his brain, the customer service rep who de-escalated crises for a living, told him to stay put. But the heat in his blood and the throbbing in his chest pushed him out of the booth.
He stood up, smoothing his pants, and followed her. He walked past the counter, where a line of customers waited for their orders, and toward the rear of the restaurant. She moved with purpose, her waist-length ponytail swinging behind her. She stopped at a thick mahogany door with a small, black nameplate screwed into the wood at eye level. It read Manager.
She pushed the door open and held it, waiting for him to enter. Elijah stepped past her, the air inside the room noticeably cooler and quieter than the dining area. As soon as he was clear, she followed him in and shut the door. The latch clicked with a heavy, final sound, followed immediately by the sharp metallic snick of the deadbolt being thrown.
Elijah turned to face her as she leaned back against the door, crossing her arms. The office was small, a twelve-by-twelve box that felt intimate and sealed off from the world. The floor was made of pink sandstone tiles, a surprising choice that gave the room a warm, earthy glow under the fluorescent lights. In the northwest corner stood a gray metal filing cabinet, sturdy and imposing. A clear, ten-gallon water jug sat in the northeast corner, the water level half-full, catching the light.
Dominating the center of the room was a navy blue manager’s desk, about four feet long and three feet wide, the surface cluttered with paperwork and a monitor. A green swivel chair was tucked under the desk, the fabric worn smooth. Facing the desk, clearly intended for visitors or employees on the receiving end of a lecture, sat a red swivel chair that matched the manager's shirt.
Elijah stood near the red chair, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the building’s ventilation. The manager looked at him, her turquoise eyes boring into his hazel ones, the distance between them charged with the promise of the story he had just been reading. She didn't need to say a word; the locked door and the isolation of the pink sandstone room spoke volumes.
The silence in the small, pink-tiled office was absolute, broken only by the distant, muffled hum of the ice machine in the kitchen beyond the walls. The manager, still leaning against the deadbolted mahogany door, uncrossed her arms and let her turquoise eyes rake over him, stripping him of his defenses before he had even removed a layer of clothing.
"I am Liakádas Vivilia,” she said, sounding out the name carefully so he understood.
“ it means sunshine books in Greek, and I am Greek. And you are?"
"Elijah," he croaked, his throat dry, the word scraping against his larynx.
“Elijah Rasin."
She nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement.
"Elijah. Take every single thing off. Every stitch."
The air in the twelve-by-twelve box seemed to thicken, pressing against his eardrums like physical weight. Elijah’s hands hung limp at his sides, his fingers twitching but refusing to move toward his hem. The reality of the locked door and the woman blocking it crashed down on him, freezing his muscles in place.
A smirk curled the corner of her mouth, twisting her cinnamon-sugar features into an expression of amused predation. She pushed off the door and took a single step forward, extending a slender index finger and pointing it at his chest.
“If you’re too shy, I can do it for you," she purred, her voice dropping an octave.
“I’d be more than happy."
The threat—or promise—sparked a frantic reflex in him. Elijah grabbed the hem of his shirt. It was a cotton tee, printed with a pattern of sea turtles swimming underwater with small fish darting around them. There were no buttons, just fabric. He yanked it upward and over his head in one swift, desperate motion, pulling it free from his arms and letting it drop to the pink sandstone tiles.
Her eyebrows shot up, her turquoise eyes lighting up as they scanned the exposed terrain of his torso. The ridges of his six-pack were deeply etched, his chest and arms carrying the lean, defined density of a man who used his body constantly.
"You don’t eat processed food," she stated, her eyes tracing the lines of his abdomen. It wasn't a question. "Everything, even the meat, is natural. And you exercise—walking, riding your bike, swimming."
Elijah swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against the constriction of his throat. "Yes."
"It shows," she said, the approval in her voice making his face flush a deep, burning crimson that crept down his neck.
His hands trembled slightly as they moved to his waist. He wore Lincoln green khaki shorts, secured by two silver buttons above a zipper. He fumbled with the metal buttons, his fingers slipping once before they popped free. He dragged the zipper down, the teeth hissing softly, and let the shorts pool around his ankles.
He hadn't intended the reveal, but there it was. The tight cotton underwear he wore underneath clung to him like a second skin. It featured a thick, dark blue elastic band that sat low on his hips, the fabric itself curving intimately over the contours of his buttocks and genitals, leaving nothing to the imagination.
She let out a low, appreciative hum. "That fits your ass and your boy bits greatly," she observed, her gaze lingering on the outline of the fabric.
Elijah groaned, a sound of mortified resignation that echoed in the small room. She chuckled, a dark, rich sound that vibrated in the air between them.
He knew what she wanted. He knew the unspoken protocol of the dynamic he had stumbled into. He turned around, presenting his back to her, and hooked his thumbs into the dark blue band. He pulled the underwear down, slowly, almost sadly, the cotton dragging over his skin until it fell to join the shorts at his feet.
Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a long, vibrating "MMM." He could feel the heat of her gaze on his bare skin, palpable as a sunlamp.
"I’d love to devour those buns," she murmured, the words hanging in the air.
Elijah turned back around, his hands instinctively moving to cover himself, but he dropped them at the sharp look she gave him. Her mouth had fallen open slightly, but then her lips pressed together in a firm 'O’. A genuine blush, unexpected and out of place on her dominant features, rose on her cinnamon-sugar cheeks.
"And I would love to suck on that delicious Portuguese sausage and those boiled eggs," she said, her voice straining slightly against the crudeness of the metaphor, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on his groin.
She turned abruptly and walked to the navy blue manager's desk, the heels of her black boots clicking sharply on the tile. She pulled open one of the drawers and rummaged for a moment before retrieving a spare, grease-stained McDonald’s paper bag. She walked back to his side, bent down, and scooped up the sea turtle shirt, the green khakis, and the tight underwear. She shoved them into the bag, the paper crinkling loudly.
"I’m taking these to my car," she announced, folding the top of the bag closed.
"You won’t be able to leave until I say so."
She walked to the door, unlocked the deadbolt just long enough to slip out, and locked it again from the outside. The seconds ticked by, the silence stretching, until the deadbolt clicked once more and she re-entered. She didn't look at him immediately; instead, her hands went to her waist. She undid the purple leather belt that held up her black pants, sliding it through the loops with a menacing snap. The pants loosened around her hips but didn't slide down, held in place by the curve of her body.
"First," she said, folding the belt in half and slapping it against her own palm, "I’m gonna warm you up with my hand. Then... I’m gonna use the belt."
She moved to the center of the room and grabbed the green swivel chair that was tucked under the desk. She pulled it out, dragging it across the tiles until it was positioned next to the pair of black and silver guest chairs lined up against the wall. She sat down in the green chair, her back straight, her legs spread slightly for balance.
"Get over my lap," she commanded, pointing to her thighs. "Chest on the second chair."
Elijah shuffled forward, his bare feet cold on the tile. He lowered himself across her knees, draping his chest over the soft, woven wool of the green swivel chair. His head hung over the edge of the chair, his hands hung near the floor, while his rear was elevated, exposed and helpless.
"By the time I’m done with you," Liakadas Vivilia said, her hand resting lightly on the small of his back, "your ass will be swollen and dark purple like a plum. You won’t sit down for a month."
She didn't start hitting him immediately. For the next sixty seconds, her hands explored his buttocks with rough, clinical curiosity. She scratched her fingernails into the sensitive skin, rubbed the flesh hard enough to create friction, squeezed the muscles until he gasped, and pulled the cheeks apart, inspecting him. It was an agonizingly slow preparation, sensitizing every nerve ending, turning his skin into a live wire.
Then, her hand left his skin.
She raised her right hand high, bringing it down with a violent crack directly in the center of his ass.
Elijah screamed, the sound tearing out of his throat before he could stifle it.
She didn't wait for him to recover. A second later, her hand landed on his left cheek with equal force. A second after that, the right cheek. Then back to the center. She established a rhythm, a steady, punishing drumbeat of pain that echoed off the pink sandstone walls.
After only twenty blows, Elijah’s composure shattered.
“Mercy!" he gasped, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the legs of the chair beneath his chest.
“Please! You’re killing me! My butt burns!"
Liakadas Vivilia didn't stop. She didn't even slow down. Instead, she leaned forward, shifting her weight to increase the momentum of her swing, driving her palm into his reddening flesh with even greater force.
The Greek woman found the tactile feedback far more rewarding than any implement. With a belt, there was a barrier; with her hand, she could feel the muscle collapse beneath her strike and the sudden, radiating heat of a bruise forming in real-time. She watched with a clinical fascination as his skin shifted from a soft peanut-butter brown to a vivid, glowing pink—the exact shade of strawberry milk. For five grueling minutes, the rhythm continued, a relentless percussion of skin on skin. When the manager finally ceased, she didn't immediately pull away. She spent a minute softly rubbing the swollen cheeks, noting with a smirk that her own palm had become red and puffy from the violence of the impact.
Without warning, she hoisted Elijah off her lap and dumped him across the navy blue manager’s desk. He lay there awkwardly, his penis and legs dangling uselessly over the edge, his arms unable to reach the floor. She shoved the green swivel chair beneath his arms so he had something to grip. Liakádas picked up the purple leather belt and began to lightly swish it across his skin. The cool, smooth leather teased the raw nerves, making Elijah let out a shaky, nervous laugh that sounded more like a sob. He trembled in anticipation, his body bracing for a blow that didn't come for a full minute.
Then, she lashed the belt down diagonally from her shoulder. The impact was a sharp, stinging snap that sliced through the air. She let him ride that singular, burning line for seven seconds, watching him squirm and heave. She then swung from the opposite direction, crossing the first mark with a second diagonal strike to form a precise 'X'. After another agonizing pause, she drove the belt vertically down the middle, and finally, horizontally across the center. She spent a minute softly rubbing the swollen cheeks, noting with a smirk that her own palm had become red and puffy from the violence of the impact.
Without warning, she hoisted Elijah off her lap and dumped him across the navy blue manager’s desk. He lay there awkwardly, his penis and legs dangling uselessly over the edge, his arms unable to reach the floor. She shoved the green swivel chair beneath his arms so he had something to grip. Liakádas picked up the purple leather belt and began to lightly swish it across his skin. The cool, smooth leather teased the raw nerves, making Elijah let out a shaky, nervous laugh that sounded more like a sob. He trembled in anticipation, his body bracing for a blow that didn't come for a full minute.
Then, she lashed the belt down diagonally from her shoulder. The impact was a sharp, stinging snap that sliced through the air. She let him ride that singular, burning line for seven seconds, watching him squirm and heave. She then swung from the opposite direction, crossing the first mark with a second diagonal strike to form a precise 'X'. After another agonizing pause, she drove the belt vertically down the middle, and finally, horizontally across the center. She spent the next five minutes—not counting the seven second pauses—weaving a brutal, crisscrossing pattern of welts, transforming his buttocks into a jumbled mass of overlapping fire.
By the time she stopped, Elijah’s rear was no longer pink; it had deepened into a rich, bruised purple, the color of a ripened plum. Liakádas leaned in and pressed the back of her right palm firmly against his raw skin for a heartbeat, then snapped it back with a sudden, shaking motion.
“Damn, that burns! I really cooked his buns good, didn’t I?” she said to herself, her voice brimming with a mixture of pride and genuine curiosity. She leaned over him, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath hot against his skin.
“I’m gonna get something for that poor ass, baby. Stay right here,” she whispered. Vivilia let out a small, mocking giggle, knowing full well that he was naked, trembling, and utterly incapable of moving an inch.
The door clicked shut, leaving Elijah alone with the throb of his own pulse echoing in his ears. He lay draped over the desk, the navy blue surface cool against his ribs, while his rear felt like it had been branded by a hot iron. For four minutes, the silence of the office felt like an eternity. He could hear the distant, muffled chaos of the lunch rush—the beeping of fryers and the shouting of orders—a world away from the sterile, pink-tiled sanctuary of his torment.
When the lock turned, Liakádas returned holding a small plastic jar. The container had a light green label, topped with a dark green screw-cap that she twi
The screen glowed with white text against a black background, a stark contrast to the bright, sterile lighting of the restaurant. He scrolled slowly, his thumb moving with deliberate precision. The story was a particular favorite of his—a heavy dose of CP, BDSM, and femdom. The protagonist, a man with a soft jawline and a tendency to blush, stood in the center of a plush corporate office. Elijah read the words intently, visualizing the scene. The female boss in the story circled the man, her voice a low purr as she explained her unique management style. She didn’t want macho posturing or the invincible charade so many men strutted around the office like peacocks. She preferred vulnerability. She preferred the baby face.
"I won't fire you," the text read, the dialogue jumping out at Elijah. "And I certainly won't send you to HR. Instead, I’ll roast your cute little bum right here in this office anytime you mess up. Do we understand each other?"
Elijah shifted in his seat, a familiar tightness gathering in his groin. He reached for his soda, taking a long sip to cool the flush rising on his peanut-butter colored skin. He ran a hand through his blonde mop-top, the hair cut short and standing upright right above his blonde eyebrows—a genetic gift from his white French-Haitian mother that contrasted sharply with the darker complexion inherited from his father. He felt the thrill of the fantasy, the idea of a woman stripping away the performance of masculinity to demand something rawer.
"So you’re into kinky stuff?!"
The voice was close, too close, slicing through the ambient noise of the restaurant like a knife. Elijah’s thumb slipped, the phone screen flickering as he nearly dropped the device. He slammed it face down on the table, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked up, his hazel eyes wide with panic.
Standing over him was a woman who commanded the air around the plastic table. She was tall, her skin the color of cinnamon sugar, warm and radiant. Her hair was a cascade of jet black, pulled back into a severe, waist-length ponytail that swayed slightly as she moved. She wore the standard black pants and black hat of the crew, but her shirt was a vibrant, commanding red, marking her authority instantly.
Elijah opened his mouth, his throat dry, but no sound came out. He looked for an escape, but the woman’s presence pinned him in place. She leaned in, resting a hand on the back of the empty booth opposite him. Her eyes were a startling, piercing turquoise, locking onto his with an intensity that made his breath hitch.
"Don't be afraid," she said, her voice dropping an octave, losing the public volume of her initial outburst. She smiled, a curve of lips that was knowing rather than mocking. "I see the concern on your face. There’s nothing wrong with liking that type of stuff. I hate the stigma as much as I’m sure you do."
Elijah blinked, his shoulders dropping an inch. The tension in his neck didn't vanish, but the immediate terror of being exposed faded into a wary confusion. He looked at her name tag, but it was obscured by the angle of her body.
She tilted her head, studying him, her gaze drifting over his blonde hair and his features. "I have to ask you seriously, though," she continued, her tone shifting from reassuring to inquisitive.
"Do you see anything wrong with a man showing vulnerability to a woman?"
Elijah swallowed hard. He looked at the table, then back up at her turquoise eyes. The question hung in the air, heavy and significant. He thought about the story on his phone, about the fantasy of surrendering control.
“No," he whispered, the word barely audible over the restaurant's music system.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said. She straightened up, the movement fluid and graceful. She glanced around the bustling restaurant, ensuring no one was watching their specific interaction, then leaned down close to Elijah’s ear. Her scent washed over him—something floral and spicy, matching her skin tone.
“I really want to experience it," she breathed, her voice a secret shared only between them.
"What’s in that book you’re reading. Follow me."
She didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked away, the red shirt a beacon amidst the sea of green uniforms worn by the other employees. Elijah sat frozen for a heartbeat, his mind racing. He looked at his phone, then at her retreating back. The logical part of his brain, the customer service rep who de-escalated crises for a living, told him to stay put. But the heat in his blood and the throbbing in his chest pushed him out of the booth.
He stood up, smoothing his pants, and followed her. He walked past the counter, where a line of customers waited for their orders, and toward the rear of the restaurant. She moved with purpose, her waist-length ponytail swinging behind her. She stopped at a thick mahogany door with a small, black nameplate screwed into the wood at eye level. It read Manager.
She pushed the door open and held it, waiting for him to enter. Elijah stepped past her, the air inside the room noticeably cooler and quieter than the dining area. As soon as he was clear, she followed him in and shut the door. The latch clicked with a heavy, final sound, followed immediately by the sharp metallic snick of the deadbolt being thrown.
Elijah turned to face her as she leaned back against the door, crossing her arms. The office was small, a twelve-by-twelve box that felt intimate and sealed off from the world. The floor was made of pink sandstone tiles, a surprising choice that gave the room a warm, earthy glow under the fluorescent lights. In the northwest corner stood a gray metal filing cabinet, sturdy and imposing. A clear, ten-gallon water jug sat in the northeast corner, the water level half-full, catching the light.
Dominating the center of the room was a navy blue manager’s desk, about four feet long and three feet wide, the surface cluttered with paperwork and a monitor. A green swivel chair was tucked under the desk, the fabric worn smooth. Facing the desk, clearly intended for visitors or employees on the receiving end of a lecture, sat a red swivel chair that matched the manager's shirt.
Elijah stood near the red chair, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the faint hum of the building’s ventilation. The manager looked at him, her turquoise eyes boring into his hazel ones, the distance between them charged with the promise of the story he had just been reading. She didn't need to say a word; the locked door and the isolation of the pink sandstone room spoke volumes.
The silence in the small, pink-tiled office was absolute, broken only by the distant, muffled hum of the ice machine in the kitchen beyond the walls. The manager, still leaning against the deadbolted mahogany door, uncrossed her arms and let her turquoise eyes rake over him, stripping him of his defenses before he had even removed a layer of clothing.
"I am Liakádas Vivilia,” she said, sounding out the name carefully so he understood.
“ it means sunshine books in Greek, and I am Greek. And you are?"
"Elijah," he croaked, his throat dry, the word scraping against his larynx.
“Elijah Rasin."
She nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement.
"Elijah. Take every single thing off. Every stitch."
The air in the twelve-by-twelve box seemed to thicken, pressing against his eardrums like physical weight. Elijah’s hands hung limp at his sides, his fingers twitching but refusing to move toward his hem. The reality of the locked door and the woman blocking it crashed down on him, freezing his muscles in place.
A smirk curled the corner of her mouth, twisting her cinnamon-sugar features into an expression of amused predation. She pushed off the door and took a single step forward, extending a slender index finger and pointing it at his chest.
“If you’re too shy, I can do it for you," she purred, her voice dropping an octave.
“I’d be more than happy."
The threat—or promise—sparked a frantic reflex in him. Elijah grabbed the hem of his shirt. It was a cotton tee, printed with a pattern of sea turtles swimming underwater with small fish darting around them. There were no buttons, just fabric. He yanked it upward and over his head in one swift, desperate motion, pulling it free from his arms and letting it drop to the pink sandstone tiles.
Her eyebrows shot up, her turquoise eyes lighting up as they scanned the exposed terrain of his torso. The ridges of his six-pack were deeply etched, his chest and arms carrying the lean, defined density of a man who used his body constantly.
"You don’t eat processed food," she stated, her eyes tracing the lines of his abdomen. It wasn't a question. "Everything, even the meat, is natural. And you exercise—walking, riding your bike, swimming."
Elijah swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against the constriction of his throat. "Yes."
"It shows," she said, the approval in her voice making his face flush a deep, burning crimson that crept down his neck.
His hands trembled slightly as they moved to his waist. He wore Lincoln green khaki shorts, secured by two silver buttons above a zipper. He fumbled with the metal buttons, his fingers slipping once before they popped free. He dragged the zipper down, the teeth hissing softly, and let the shorts pool around his ankles.
He hadn't intended the reveal, but there it was. The tight cotton underwear he wore underneath clung to him like a second skin. It featured a thick, dark blue elastic band that sat low on his hips, the fabric itself curving intimately over the contours of his buttocks and genitals, leaving nothing to the imagination.
She let out a low, appreciative hum. "That fits your ass and your boy bits greatly," she observed, her gaze lingering on the outline of the fabric.
Elijah groaned, a sound of mortified resignation that echoed in the small room. She chuckled, a dark, rich sound that vibrated in the air between them.
He knew what she wanted. He knew the unspoken protocol of the dynamic he had stumbled into. He turned around, presenting his back to her, and hooked his thumbs into the dark blue band. He pulled the underwear down, slowly, almost sadly, the cotton dragging over his skin until it fell to join the shorts at his feet.
Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a long, vibrating "MMM." He could feel the heat of her gaze on his bare skin, palpable as a sunlamp.
"I’d love to devour those buns," she murmured, the words hanging in the air.
Elijah turned back around, his hands instinctively moving to cover himself, but he dropped them at the sharp look she gave him. Her mouth had fallen open slightly, but then her lips pressed together in a firm 'O’. A genuine blush, unexpected and out of place on her dominant features, rose on her cinnamon-sugar cheeks.
"And I would love to suck on that delicious Portuguese sausage and those boiled eggs," she said, her voice straining slightly against the crudeness of the metaphor, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on his groin.
She turned abruptly and walked to the navy blue manager's desk, the heels of her black boots clicking sharply on the tile. She pulled open one of the drawers and rummaged for a moment before retrieving a spare, grease-stained McDonald’s paper bag. She walked back to his side, bent down, and scooped up the sea turtle shirt, the green khakis, and the tight underwear. She shoved them into the bag, the paper crinkling loudly.
"I’m taking these to my car," she announced, folding the top of the bag closed.
"You won’t be able to leave until I say so."
She walked to the door, unlocked the deadbolt just long enough to slip out, and locked it again from the outside. The seconds ticked by, the silence stretching, until the deadbolt clicked once more and she re-entered. She didn't look at him immediately; instead, her hands went to her waist. She undid the purple leather belt that held up her black pants, sliding it through the loops with a menacing snap. The pants loosened around her hips but didn't slide down, held in place by the curve of her body.
"First," she said, folding the belt in half and slapping it against her own palm, "I’m gonna warm you up with my hand. Then... I’m gonna use the belt."
She moved to the center of the room and grabbed the green swivel chair that was tucked under the desk. She pulled it out, dragging it across the tiles until it was positioned next to the pair of black and silver guest chairs lined up against the wall. She sat down in the green chair, her back straight, her legs spread slightly for balance.
"Get over my lap," she commanded, pointing to her thighs. "Chest on the second chair."
Elijah shuffled forward, his bare feet cold on the tile. He lowered himself across her knees, draping his chest over the soft, woven wool of the green swivel chair. His head hung over the edge of the chair, his hands hung near the floor, while his rear was elevated, exposed and helpless.
"By the time I’m done with you," Liakadas Vivilia said, her hand resting lightly on the small of his back, "your ass will be swollen and dark purple like a plum. You won’t sit down for a month."
She didn't start hitting him immediately. For the next sixty seconds, her hands explored his buttocks with rough, clinical curiosity. She scratched her fingernails into the sensitive skin, rubbed the flesh hard enough to create friction, squeezed the muscles until he gasped, and pulled the cheeks apart, inspecting him. It was an agonizingly slow preparation, sensitizing every nerve ending, turning his skin into a live wire.
Then, her hand left his skin.
She raised her right hand high, bringing it down with a violent crack directly in the center of his ass.
Elijah screamed, the sound tearing out of his throat before he could stifle it.
She didn't wait for him to recover. A second later, her hand landed on his left cheek with equal force. A second after that, the right cheek. Then back to the center. She established a rhythm, a steady, punishing drumbeat of pain that echoed off the pink sandstone walls.
After only twenty blows, Elijah’s composure shattered.
“Mercy!" he gasped, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the legs of the chair beneath his chest.
“Please! You’re killing me! My butt burns!"
Liakadas Vivilia didn't stop. She didn't even slow down. Instead, she leaned forward, shifting her weight to increase the momentum of her swing, driving her palm into his reddening flesh with even greater force.
The Greek woman found the tactile feedback far more rewarding than any implement. With a belt, there was a barrier; with her hand, she could feel the muscle collapse beneath her strike and the sudden, radiating heat of a bruise forming in real-time. She watched with a clinical fascination as his skin shifted from a soft peanut-butter brown to a vivid, glowing pink—the exact shade of strawberry milk. For five grueling minutes, the rhythm continued, a relentless percussion of skin on skin. When the manager finally ceased, she didn't immediately pull away. She spent a minute softly rubbing the swollen cheeks, noting with a smirk that her own palm had become red and puffy from the violence of the impact.
Without warning, she hoisted Elijah off her lap and dumped him across the navy blue manager’s desk. He lay there awkwardly, his penis and legs dangling uselessly over the edge, his arms unable to reach the floor. She shoved the green swivel chair beneath his arms so he had something to grip. Liakádas picked up the purple leather belt and began to lightly swish it across his skin. The cool, smooth leather teased the raw nerves, making Elijah let out a shaky, nervous laugh that sounded more like a sob. He trembled in anticipation, his body bracing for a blow that didn't come for a full minute.
Then, she lashed the belt down diagonally from her shoulder. The impact was a sharp, stinging snap that sliced through the air. She let him ride that singular, burning line for seven seconds, watching him squirm and heave. She then swung from the opposite direction, crossing the first mark with a second diagonal strike to form a precise 'X'. After another agonizing pause, she drove the belt vertically down the middle, and finally, horizontally across the center. She spent a minute softly rubbing the swollen cheeks, noting with a smirk that her own palm had become red and puffy from the violence of the impact.
Without warning, she hoisted Elijah off her lap and dumped him across the navy blue manager’s desk. He lay there awkwardly, his penis and legs dangling uselessly over the edge, his arms unable to reach the floor. She shoved the green swivel chair beneath his arms so he had something to grip. Liakádas picked up the purple leather belt and began to lightly swish it across his skin. The cool, smooth leather teased the raw nerves, making Elijah let out a shaky, nervous laugh that sounded more like a sob. He trembled in anticipation, his body bracing for a blow that didn't come for a full minute.
Then, she lashed the belt down diagonally from her shoulder. The impact was a sharp, stinging snap that sliced through the air. She let him ride that singular, burning line for seven seconds, watching him squirm and heave. She then swung from the opposite direction, crossing the first mark with a second diagonal strike to form a precise 'X'. After another agonizing pause, she drove the belt vertically down the middle, and finally, horizontally across the center. She spent the next five minutes—not counting the seven second pauses—weaving a brutal, crisscrossing pattern of welts, transforming his buttocks into a jumbled mass of overlapping fire.
By the time she stopped, Elijah’s rear was no longer pink; it had deepened into a rich, bruised purple, the color of a ripened plum. Liakádas leaned in and pressed the back of her right palm firmly against his raw skin for a heartbeat, then snapped it back with a sudden, shaking motion.
“Damn, that burns! I really cooked his buns good, didn’t I?” she said to herself, her voice brimming with a mixture of pride and genuine curiosity. She leaned over him, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath hot against his skin.
“I’m gonna get something for that poor ass, baby. Stay right here,” she whispered. Vivilia let out a small, mocking giggle, knowing full well that he was naked, trembling, and utterly incapable of moving an inch.
The door clicked shut, leaving Elijah alone with the throb of his own pulse echoing in his ears. He lay draped over the desk, the navy blue surface cool against his ribs, while his rear felt like it had been branded by a hot iron. For four minutes, the silence of the office felt like an eternity. He could hear the distant, muffled chaos of the lunch rush—the beeping of fryers and the shouting of orders—a world away from the sterile, pink-tiled sanctuary of his torment.
When the lock turned, Liakádas returned holding a small plastic jar. The container had a light green label, topped with a dark green screw-cap that she twi
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