Kebab Shop Karma | NEON LIT

Three in the morning, pissed as a fart, and there's only one place to go: Mustafa's Kebab House.

The fluorescent lights were brutal after the club's darkness, making everyone in the queue look like extras from a zombie film. But behind the counter, slicing meat off the rotating spit with practiced precision, was someone who looked very much alive.

Yasmin—Mustafa's daughter—was working the late shift. She was everything her dad wasn't: young, beautiful, and genuinely happy to be dealing with drunk idiots at this hour. Thick curves that her apron couldn't hide, dark hair pulled back, a smile that could sell shawarma to a vegetarian.

"Alright, Callum?" she said when I reached the front. "Same as usual?"

"You know me too well."

"Large doner, extra chilli sauce, no salad because you're 'not a rabbit.'" She was already building it. "That's three quid fifty."

I handed over a fiver. "Keep the change."

"Big tipper tonight." Her eyes sparkled. "Good night then?"

"Better now."

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Smooth. You chat up all the kebab girls like this?"

"Only the fit ones."

Behind me, someone shouted to hurry up. Yasmin's smile flickered.

"Listen," she said quietly, handing over my kebab, "I close in twenty minutes. If you fancy sticking around..."

I found a seat by the window and ate my kebab slowly, watching her work. Every movement was efficient, confident—she'd clearly been doing this since she was old enough to hold a knife. But when she caught me watching, there was something else there. Interest. Maybe more.

At half three, she locked the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and pulled down the metal shutters. Through the gap, she gestured me around back.

The kitchen was hot, smelling of grilled meat and spices. Yasmin was leaning against the counter, apron off, revealing a tight t-shirt that showed off curves she'd been hiding all night.

"Dad's asleep upstairs," she said. "Got about an hour before he wakes up for morning prep."

"And you want to spend it with me?"

"Spent three years watching you come in here after clubs, always on your own, always polite, always tipping." She stepped closer. "Either you're the nicest guy on the estate or you've been trying to get my attention. Which is it?"

"Both?"

She laughed, grabbed the front of my shirt, pulled me into a kiss that tasted of the hummus she'd been nibbling all shift. Soft lips, eager tongue, hands that went straight for my belt.

"Fuck, I've wanted this," she breathed. "Every weekend, watching you walk in all fit and sweaty from dancing..."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Dad would kill me. Kill you too, probably." She grinned. "Makes it more exciting, yeah?"

She hopped up onto the prep counter—health and safety be damned—and wrapped her legs around me. Under her t-shirt, she wasn't wearing a bra. I discovered this when I pulled the fabric up, revealing tits that were heavy and perfect, dark nipples already hard.

"Like what you see?"

"Fucking love it."

I buried my face between them, kissing, licking, biting gently. She gasped, arched into me, her heels digging into my arse.

"Lower," she demanded. "Got an hour, remember?"

I dropped to my knees, pulled down her joggers—black, practical—and found her wet already, dark curls trimmed neat. She tasted different from anyone I'd had before—better, somehow, or maybe that was just her.

"Shit—right there—don't stop—"

Her thighs clamped around my head as I ate her out, my tongue working patterns that made her squirm. One hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping the counter edge.

"Gonna come—fuck—already—"

She came hard, shuddering, her cry muffled by her own hand. Before she'd recovered, she was pulling me up, reaching for my jeans.

"Inside. Now. Condom's in my apron pocket."

"You came prepared?"

"Been hoping for weeks." She handed me the foil packet. "Don't make me wait."

I didn't. When I pushed into her, we both groaned—her tight, wet, hot from more than just the kitchen.

"Yes—God—yes—"

The counter wasn't designed for this. Neither was the kitchen. But we made it work—me standing, her perched on the edge, legs locked around me, matching every thrust.

"Harder—my dad sleeps like the dead—fuck me proper—"

I gave her everything, one hand on her hip, the other playing with her tits. The wet sounds of our fucking echoed off the tiles, mixed with her breathless moans and my grunts.

"Close again—touch me—"

I found her clit, rubbed circles while I fucked her. She went off like a firework, clamping down so hard I nearly lost it.

"Inside—on the pill—fill me up—"

I came with her name on my lips, buried deep, feeling her pulse around me as I spilled.

We stayed connected for a moment, forehead to forehead, breath mingling.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

"I'll be here."

"Good." She kissed me once more, soft and sweet. "Now fuck off before my dad wakes up."

I snuck out the back door, walked home through empty streets, grinning like an idiot.

The next Saturday, I walked into Mustafa's at three AM, slightly less drunk than usual.

"Alright, Callum?" Yasmin said, smile innocent behind the counter. "Same as usual?"

"You know it."

She handed over the kebab, fingers brushing mine. Inside the wrapper, folded against the pitta: a note.

Back door's unlocked. Closing in ten. Y x

Best kebab shop on the estate. Five-star service.