A good friend of mine likes to jerk me off at work. It's not a planned thing, not something we schedule in our calendars. It just happens when the tension gets too high.
We work in adjacent cubicles in a sea of beige carpeting and fluorescent lighting. Most days, it's mind-numbingly dull. But then there are the days. The days when a deadline is looming or a client is being a nightmare. The energy between us gets tight, crackling with unspoken stress.
Yesterday was one of those days. The project from hell was blowing up, emails were flying, and my jaw was clenched so tight I thought my teeth would crack. Around 3 p.m., I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him. He didn't say anything, just gave me a look—a slight raise of his eyebrows, a jerk of his head towards the men's room.
I followed. The walk down the long, sterile corridor felt electric. We didn't go to the main restroom. We went to the one in the basement, the one with the perpetually flickering light and the lock on the door. He clicked it shut behind us.
I leaned back against the cold tile of the wall, and he stepped in close. He could probably feel the frantic energy vibrating off me. He undid my belt and my slacks with practiced, quiet efficiency. This wasn't about romance or even attraction, not really. It was a service. A pressure release valve.
His hand was warm and sure, a stark contrast to the chilly air of the bathroom. He didn't talk. He just focused, his grip firm and his rhythm steady. I closed my eyes, blocking out the flickering light and the faint smell of industrial cleaner. All I could focus on was the sensation, the slow, deliberate build that was forcing every other thought out of my head.
It didn't take long. The stress of the day had me wound so tight that I was a hair trigger. When I came, it was a full-body shudder, a wave of release so profound it left my knees feeling weak. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound.
He grabbed a few paper towels, cleaned me up, and then himself. We didn't say a word. He just gave me a nod, unlocked the door, and we walked back to our desks like nothing had happened.
For the rest of the afternoon, I was calm. Focused. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a quiet clarity. He'd fixed me. And tomorrow, if the day goes to shit again, I know he'll be there to do it all over again.
We work in adjacent cubicles in a sea of beige carpeting and fluorescent lighting. Most days, it's mind-numbingly dull. But then there are the days. The days when a deadline is looming or a client is being a nightmare. The energy between us gets tight, crackling with unspoken stress.
Yesterday was one of those days. The project from hell was blowing up, emails were flying, and my jaw was clenched so tight I thought my teeth would crack. Around 3 p.m., I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him. He didn't say anything, just gave me a look—a slight raise of his eyebrows, a jerk of his head towards the men's room.
I followed. The walk down the long, sterile corridor felt electric. We didn't go to the main restroom. We went to the one in the basement, the one with the perpetually flickering light and the lock on the door. He clicked it shut behind us.
I leaned back against the cold tile of the wall, and he stepped in close. He could probably feel the frantic energy vibrating off me. He undid my belt and my slacks with practiced, quiet efficiency. This wasn't about romance or even attraction, not really. It was a service. A pressure release valve.
His hand was warm and sure, a stark contrast to the chilly air of the bathroom. He didn't talk. He just focused, his grip firm and his rhythm steady. I closed my eyes, blocking out the flickering light and the faint smell of industrial cleaner. All I could focus on was the sensation, the slow, deliberate build that was forcing every other thought out of my head.
It didn't take long. The stress of the day had me wound so tight that I was a hair trigger. When I came, it was a full-body shudder, a wave of release so profound it left my knees feeling weak. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound.
He grabbed a few paper towels, cleaned me up, and then himself. We didn't say a word. He just gave me a nod, unlocked the door, and we walked back to our desks like nothing had happened.
For the rest of the afternoon, I was calm. Focused. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a quiet clarity. He'd fixed me. And tomorrow, if the day goes to shit again, I know he'll be there to do it all over again.
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SinParty
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