Monday
The company of women.
Scattered about the place like exhausted, sleeping slaves, the indifferent office machines were my only company and comfort, after an exhausting 48 hours of cover-up report-writing. I was finished and it was time at last for the internet and the company of women.
I clicked on to a couple of fairly new strangers first, and cruised on over to that favourite familiar. Aria Giovanni. So beautiful, so predictable.
And then my right hand - like an eager blood hound dashing out on the hunt for some thing - had bolted itself through the zip of my functional black work trousers; the usual chaff of their cheap material barely clocked. The beast ignored my poor dogged brain, which had paused to quietly ask itself would I really dare yank one off there in the open-plan and my finger-tips unbuttoned the more-pleasant material of my quite expensive boxer-shorts, carressed the tip of my bulging best-friend; he answered their courting call. My little fella hardened, so quick and so hard, then and there in the hand.
So my cock suddenly crammed itself full with a flowing flood of rich red blood - what happens in an erection - according to an awkward third-year biology lesson at school - a fact I often remember - as during that session Sir asked me if I knew another word for 'masturbation' - and answered my instant, scarlet silence with 'no need to blush, I'm sure we've all done it' - and that little blood-rush in turn led to a new lasting nickname for poor old me - of the uninventive but certainly evocative 'cock-face' - which I get regularly reminded of at reunions - and in 'hilarious' group emails - and also at friends-reunited - and also every other time I put hand to gland - but there in the office I tried my hardest to concentrate on the image of some bird's breasts bobbing about the screen - this way and that with each move of the left-hand-led mouse. Trying to forget how I ran out at the end of that class and secretly burst into tears when out of sight, faceless at last, listening to the echo of Sir's call down the corridor: "Les! I'm sorry! It was just a joke! You're normally so cock-sure! Les, Les, Les!
"Les, Les, Les" - I heard his dimwitted tones hector me again as my penis exploded drops of pleasure all over my fingers at last, late at night there in the office alone. My dreary old head would now surely clear. Yet the sound of my name echoed again.
"Les, Les, Les."
There it was again. Yet it seemed less like a memory, and more as if my current boss was calling me, calling over from the other side of the office, and now in fact here and walking through with some visiting Japanese businessman he'd been out for a beer with, explaining now how he'd forgotten something. And that they may as well come right over and say hello to me.
"Les!" By my desk now. I'd managed to fumble my zip half shut. Managed to turn the monitor off. But between my fingers and my thumb, there remained a squidgy, sticky, smelly, load, of what I'd done.
"Meet Satoshi! You know! From - shake his hand! Come on Les!"
Only one thing for it. I fidgetted the features on my face together. Brought my hand up to cover my nose and mouth. A fake sneeze. To sniff down as much as possible of the stuff. Then a swift tissue for the rest. And nod, smiling, as Satoshi offers only a wave in the end, and then these words. "Hope it not Avian 'flu! Ha ha! Good night!"
I clicked on to a couple of fairly new strangers first, and cruised on over to that favourite familiar. Aria Giovanni. So beautiful, so predictable.
And then my right hand - like an eager blood hound dashing out on the hunt for some thing - had bolted itself through the zip of my functional black work trousers; the usual chaff of their cheap material barely clocked. The beast ignored my poor dogged brain, which had paused to quietly ask itself would I really dare yank one off there in the open-plan and my finger-tips unbuttoned the more-pleasant material of my quite expensive boxer-shorts, carressed the tip of my bulging best-friend; he answered their courting call. My little fella hardened, so quick and so hard, then and there in the hand.
So my cock suddenly crammed itself full with a flowing flood of rich red blood - what happens in an erection - according to an awkward third-year biology lesson at school - a fact I often remember - as during that session Sir asked me if I knew another word for 'masturbation' - and answered my instant, scarlet silence with 'no need to blush, I'm sure we've all done it' - and that little blood-rush in turn led to a new lasting nickname for poor old me - of the uninventive but certainly evocative 'cock-face' - which I get regularly reminded of at reunions - and in 'hilarious' group emails - and also at friends-reunited - and also every other time I put hand to gland - but there in the office I tried my hardest to concentrate on the image of some bird's breasts bobbing about the screen - this way and that with each move of the left-hand-led mouse. Trying to forget how I ran out at the end of that class and secretly burst into tears when out of sight, faceless at last, listening to the echo of Sir's call down the corridor: "Les! I'm sorry! It was just a joke! You're normally so cock-sure! Les, Les, Les!
"Les, Les, Les" - I heard his dimwitted tones hector me again as my penis exploded drops of pleasure all over my fingers at last, late at night there in the office alone. My dreary old head would now surely clear. Yet the sound of my name echoed again.
"Les, Les, Les."
There it was again. Yet it seemed less like a memory, and more as if my current boss was calling me, calling over from the other side of the office, and now in fact here and walking through with some visiting Japanese businessman he'd been out for a beer with, explaining now how he'd forgotten something. And that they may as well come right over and say hello to me.
"Les!" By my desk now. I'd managed to fumble my zip half shut. Managed to turn the monitor off. But between my fingers and my thumb, there remained a squidgy, sticky, smelly, load, of what I'd done.
"Meet Satoshi! You know! From - shake his hand! Come on Les!"
Only one thing for it. I fidgetted the features on my face together. Brought my hand up to cover my nose and mouth. A fake sneeze. To sniff down as much as possible of the stuff. Then a swift tissue for the rest. And nod, smiling, as Satoshi offers only a wave in the end, and then these words. "Hope it not Avian 'flu! Ha ha! Good night!"
