Every order I get from my boss starts: “Mallory, I need…” Whether the request following is a report of third-quarter earnings from 2003 or a skinny chai latte with extra whipped cream, email or text message it always starts the same. It’s infuriating.
It also doesn’t help that it’s 6:30 on a Friday night and I’m in the office working on something my boss sprung on me last minute.
I try not to dwell on frustration, instead I just put my headphones in and queue up a podcast while I work. Thankfully my cubicle is in the far corner of the office, near the bathrooms and the area is pretty low traffic.
I try not to think about my ruined plans for the night, instead I just make my way through my report and try to keep an eye out for mistakes. I’d hate to be here another hour proofreading this shit.
Eventually the podcast ends and the app I’m using shuffles another one from the library. It goes a few seconds before I realize what I’m listening to. Now before you judge me for what I keep on my phone, keep in mind that I downloaded it out of curiosity. Ok, so maybe I thought it might also be hot, but I definitely didn’t expect it to come on at work.
I guess I should explain what the hell I’m talking about, right? Well, it’s… a masturbation podcast. There’s this guy with a deep voice persuading you to drop your pants, to give in to the urge to just stroke yourself wherever you are. At first it’s a little weird, like you’re listening to some bizarre cult leader. But after a while it is kind of hypnotic and if you’re anything like me then having someone talking about your dick is like a shortcut to instant wood.
Before I even realize it I’m already rationalizing with myself: it’s pretty late, most everyone has already gone home aside from the few suckers in my situation and possibly my boss. The cleaning crew doesn’t show up for another twenty, thirty minutes. And my cubicle gives me a semi-private area. Still the risk of it sets my heart racing and even though the guy on the podcast is telling me how much I want to stroke it (and I hardly need him to state that very obvious fact) I’m not sure that it’s possible. That is until I have the genius idea to set up a security system.
All of our computers come with webcams for the plethora of useless web-conferences our company conducts, so it doesn’t take much work to swivel the camera around and place it at the far end of my desk, turn it on, and put the feed up on my computer so that if someone starts approaching from behind me then I can easily and quickly go into hands-off mode. Even just setting up the webcam gives me an insane hard-on. Am I really going to go through with this insanity?
I take the first step pretty innocently and shift my boner around through the outside of my gray dress pants. Once I’ve moved it to the side it juts across my thigh looking rigid and obscene.
‘Just touch it,’ the podcast says. ‘Marvel in it. How hard it is. How firm. Maybe even a little wet by now. It’s yours and you deserve to pleasure it.’
I catch myself breathing a bit hard and make myself chill out. But I am hard, way hard, and I can definitely feel a bit of moisture seeping from the head of my cock into my underwear. I rub my thumb across the head and then glance up guiltily at my computer screen. The hallway behind me is still empty.
I pull my chair all the way up to my desk so that my lower half is completely beneath it. Only then do I get a little bolder with my rubbing. It feels really fucking good. My nipples are hard my close-fitting dress shirt that has just a hint of spandex so that it clings extra tightly.
‘Get your hand around it. Worship it,’ the podcast tells me.
It’s already getting sticky in my underwear, my cockhead’s drooling liberally as it waits for me to go full tilt. I unzip my pants delicately, staring at the webcam feed as I do and checking that nobody’s crossing in front of me on their way to the bathroom. I do everything with my right hand as I type gibberish on my keyboard with my left. I know this has to be quick, I don’t have much of a choice. My heart is like a turbine in my chest, I can hear it in my ears.
I pull my cock through the fly of my pants and breathe a sigh of relief and anticipation. I know my face is probably red as fuck, but I can’t stop now. I give it a few tugs, rub the precum into the tip and check the webcam again.
‘Give in. Jerk your dick. Do it.’
I do. I jerk my cock as if I’m not at work, sitting in my cubicle pretending to type. I pound my dick knowing that in a moment I’ll have to scrub the cum stain out of the dark carpet. Maybe, I think, I’ll wipe my hand clean on my boss’s report. But all that comes later. Right now, I’m cumming, shooting all over the inside of my desk. Each shot lands audibly on the metal and my stomach tightens with the force of it. I stuff my dick, still wet, still hard, still oozing into my pants and let the rest of the jizz drain into my underwear.
I sit there for a few minutes breathing heavily before I turn off the camera, wipe my hand on my stack of printer paper and start to clean up. Fuck this job.