Congratulations Masturbating Businessman!

The fist will slam into the door again and again but you won’t be able to stop: your own fist will be spun into a fine grip around your penis, moving up and down furiously, in a way that has to be audible from outside the stall. You’ll simultaneously feel shame and intense arousal and you’ll wish, just that once, that you could just finish. You’ll pray to come, but instead of coming you’ll exhale loudly and shout at the person trying to beat the stall door down.

“FIVE MORE MINUTES!”

“Fuck you!” the muffled response will come from outside, followed by the crash of a boot on to the door and a leap of steel on steel as the hinges groan against the onslaught. It won’t be long now before the door caves, and the sweat on your face will be forming thicker and steadier than it was before. The salty taste of it will trail down your nose on to your exposed tongue, but even this won’t help you finish. So you’ll pull out your belt with your free hand and, in a practiced motion, loop it around your neck smoothly. Then you’ll pull it taught. Very taught. Your vision will blur right away and the part of your brain keeping you from coming will ebb.

Your tongue will become a far more intense presence in your mouth, a slippery, welcome foreigner covered in mucus and wonderment, and as it grows smoother in your brain your grip on your own member will grow looser and faster and easier and then and then and then

the door will collapse and the man, the man who was kicking in on it, Robert Carnacki, the only African American man in your office will burst in just as you finish, his entry coinciding perfectly with the issue of a thick, demanding stream of jism from your tip which will spurt laconically for a foot and a half before it comes to rest right next to your shoe. You’ll loosen the belt and look up at Robert, who will be standing there perplexed. He’ll take in your sweat stained clothes, your contorted face and your tortured red penis, and he’ll shake his head. There really isn’t much more he could do.

“Heya Robbie,” you’ll pant at him, nodding and waving your lube caked hand in his direction. At this he’ll punch the door and walk away, shouting over his shoulder.

“I’m getting security.”

“Bye bye, Robbie,” you’ll mumble into your collar as he goes.

Later, when security arrives, you’ll try to pull the old “you know how it is” story on them that has worked so often in the past. But not today. You had to be discovered by a BLACK co-worker. The only thing that would make it worse would be being discovered by a female co-worker. “There’ll be no coming back from this,” the Russian security guard will tell you as he hauls you from your seat on the toilet and on to your feet. “Is curtains for you.”

Congratulations Masturbating Businessman!