Fifty Shades of Chick-fil-A: My Polyamorous Chick-fil-A Fan Porn

When I saw the sign for Chick-fil-A beside the signs for BP, Home Depot, Best Buy, Target, the Mattress Store, and WalMart, I could not control my arms. I’m not the kind that lets myself eat fast food that often, because I care about my body, though sometimes, something erupts in me and I want nothing more than floods of fries and meat crammed in my face. I semi-helplessly watched  myself drive into the parking lot where a line of minivans was wrapped around the building. I saw then there were only minutes left to close, and knew if I wanted a boneless breast of chicken seasoned to perfection, hand-breaded, pressure cooked in 100 percent refined peanut oil and served on a toasted, buttered bun with dill pickle chips I’d have to go inside.

A young twink in a visor was already locking the doors as I walked up. He had acne scars and khaki shorts with a braided belt. I noticed he was limping. “I’m sorry, the dining room is…,” he began, though as his eyes raised from the ground, lingering at my crotch region, and finally into my handsome face and muscular torso, he grinned and pushed the door back open wide.

Inside they were blasting U2’s “Where The Streets Have No Name.” A skinny young lady wiping down tables with long, slow strokes near the ketchup dispensers held my eye as I came in. Behind the counter, a chunky dork with a  gimp arm served the last few at the drive-thru. Two guys in the back area with the fry station had removed their shirts and seemed to be playing a squealing game of grab ass with pairs of fry tongs.

I heard the guy behind me lock the door. “It’s Saturday,” he said. “A special night, for tomorrow we are closed, which means tonight we can stay up… forever.” He sucked his tongue and watched me as he let his khaki shorts and briefs fall to the floor. “Hi, my name is Matthew,” he said sweetly. “Can I take your order?” His junk was shaven. He had ridiculously enormous balls, so fat and veined they seemed more like brains than cum-bunkers. His dick itself was just a head, a carbuncle buried in a mass of reddish pubes and dickne. “That’s a teeny schlong,” I pointed out. Matthew smirked and humped the air. “Chick-fil-A serves no beef,” he said, “but Jesus loves us as we are.” He moved to French me.

Matthew’s mouth stunk horrible of what I could only sense was either Polynesian sauce mixed with communion. He kissed me too hard, like a jock, and I did nothing to stop it. I’d actually always had a fantasy about fucking on the tables at a fast-food chain, though usually in my mind it went down at Taco Bell. Soon Matthew had me back against the service counter, where I let him lift me up onto the service counter and take my shorts down. He slurped my throbbing dong into his throat. I was obviously bigger than he was used to. The veins strained in his face. “Eat more chicken, Matthew,” I whispered, petting the soft parts of his skull.

By now the drive-thru line was closed. Free at last, the chubby guy took his shirt off to reveal big flabby boy-boobs, which he fondled with one hairy, claw-like hand while with the other he began wolfing down leftover waffle fries and nuggets from their service racks all open-mouthed and kind of moaning, while in the back the fry boys were now howling sort-of and making slapping sounds and banging metal. The music switched from U2 to Counting Crows.

The wipe-up girl came over to the counter now and climbed up beside me on her knees. From a basket of sauces she began to pick out single packets and open and spread them on my chest and abs and nutsack, massaging it in and licking it off with her pierced tongue. With his mouth still full of food, as if on cue the chubby boy took a place behind Matthew and began eating out his butt, the rampant stink of which soon spread wide enough to bring the fry boys scrambling from the back, now wholly naked and both bleeding. They put their hands and holes to work, lubing what they could with the sauce and grease and sweat and blood and rotating between various coworkers’ holes while their eyes stayed closed in ecstatic bliss, mumbling the Lord’s Prayer when their mouths weren’t full of skin.

At the windows a row of cops had lined up with their heads against the glass peeping in and jacking each other off while one by one little poots of enforcer semen trickled down in streaks. They Sieg Heiled me and mouthed the glass until I looked away.

I couldn’t come. Matthew kept sucking me while the bigger boy went to town behind him. He used his fingers then his fist, then the leg of a free chair, then a little golden icon of a chicken crucified on a spatula that he wore around his neck. The girl had hooked up a funnel to the Ice Dream machine and began directing the thin white log of cold fake milk into the mounds of ears and mouths and butts and teeth and all over our stomachs while Matthew choked, sometimes puked, and begged me to butt-bean him. All I wanted was a goddamn chicken sandwich. 

I was about to take back my dick and leave when I heard an old man’s voice just at my ear. “You think you’re getting out of here without serving up my special sauce, you’re as crazy as the kikes.” I turned to find a chubby pale white codger in a blue business suit and red tie like one lardy American flag perched at my side. From the mass of liver spots around his temples I recognized S. Truett Cathy, founder and overlord. In his presence, the five employee bodies caged around me redoubled in the passion of their suck and fuck, stoned eyes bulging in their heads in either glee or fear.

S. Truett Cathy smelled like old piss and baked beans. One whiff made my dick shrivel right out of Matthew’s mouth. As if in reaction to my lack of interest, Cathy ripped his suit straight down the center, revealing nipple clamps and patches of infestation around his lard chunks caked with ancient pickle juice and matted shit. The head of his cock was pierced with a rusted and gangrenous nine-inch nail. His balls had been removed, replaced with two sweating globes of what resembled carrot-raisin salad laced with aphids.

“PROD MY RAMPANT VAGINITIS,” Cathy screamed in nasal pigsound. “BONE MY SARCOPHAGUS OF LUCIFER’S ETERNAL SHUNT! I NEED YOU TO COME ALL THROUGH MY FUHRER ORGANS AND LUBE ME FOR THE FINAL RISING. I AM THE WOMAN AND THE MAN, FORMED TO FUCK MYSELF IN THE ETERNAL EYES OF HORSES IN THE FACEBOOK DICKLIGHT OF OUR USA LORD’S ONE AND ONLY BEST FAST FOOD.” Indeed, I noticed, he had, swaddled in thigh-lard, a vaginal opening curtained with labia from which hung what looked like several hundred thousand little chicken tenders, and from which rose a dark, obfuscating smoke. Choking and blinded in the stench, I flung my body for the floor.

Where I had been, the mass of employee flesh seemed to cling to Cathy as if by magnetism. They were on him humping and mooing in the manner of their mascot. Matthew quickly came into a wide blue lesion on Cathy’s chub, in time with the high singing of Sting in the climax of a song I didn’t recognize because who the fuck listens to Sting. The bigger boy sucked Cathy’s fingers with the sauce and Ice Dream coated on his pudge so thick, masturbating himself and Matthew with his free hands while the fry guys sucked and fingered the mouths Cathy’s various sore openings with crucifixes formed from cow-print dildos. Cathy screamed a mesmerized goat language, pissing in wide spray as he watched me fumbling away, their pasty bodies clamoring together with their deformed genitals and many heads greased and probing without ejaculation in their Chick-fil-A incandescence, walled against the darkness of the world.

@blakebutler