Office Muscle

This could be a problem.

I work in one of these small start-up companies that pride themselves on how "modern" their open-concept offices are, and yet our boss is as douchey and our rules are as strict as any of the big companies—and I'm one cog in that douchey, strict apparatus. As part of the IT staff, it's my job to police my coworkers, checking up on their search histories and web browsing to make sure there's nothing fishy—like what I'm seeing now: a bunch of visits to a certain website that offers content only to "fans," as it were.

Whoever it was, they at least knew enough to use their phone, not one of our computer terminals—but they either trusted too much in their security or they forgot they'd connected to our Wi-Fi. Not good, to say the least. And to make matters worse, whoever it was has been signing into an account: as a star, not just a fan.

Obviously, the boss will want to know who's responsible, and there's just one way to do that. I take a quick look around—we work side-by-side at long tables rather than in cubicles, but there's just a window behind me so nobody's likely to see my screen—and I click the link. The room seems to sway as my blood suddenly starts pounding.

The information on his profile's limited and he's cropped out his head in the preview photos, but there's no doubt who it is. After all, few guys in the world have a body like that, let alone in this little office. He dominates every room he enters, no matter how professionally he's dressed, because suits aren't made for muscles like that. With his massive shoulders and thighs, the fabric's strained everywhere; his biceps stretch out the sleeves of his jacket and when he spreads his arms, the shirt strains across his chest, the buttons barely holding on as windows of tanned flesh show between them.

I've found myself staring when he stretches and yawns. Actually, I've found myself drinking in the sight of him whenever he's around. He's only been working here two weeks and I'm obsessed, though I haven't worked up the courage to say anything besides simple greetings to him. All I know is he's named Dan; I don't even know his last name, so I can't check if he competes as a pro.

Suddenly I remember where I am and what's on my screen. I quickly shut the browser and try to calm down for a few minutes. My heartrate's faster than it's ever been and—I'm just realizing now—my dick's sore with the strength of an embarrassing erection.

What should I do? I'm perfectly willing to delete all traces of his activity, but he might just do the same thing again tomorrow. Our (straight male) boss sometimes checks the records too, and I doubt he'll be so willing to overlook this. As things stand, there's a good chance Dan's going to get us both in trouble.

But how do you tell a guy like that to stop checking his porno site in the office? The thought makes me sweat and shake, and yet strangely also makes my boner harder than ever. How am I supposed to talk about this with him? We don't know each other. He's got no reason to trust me. And besides, there's no privacy in this stupid "open-concept" workplace; it's not like I've got an office I can call him into.

I fret over this for another hour, till I catch him striding through the office out of the corner of my eye. It's a hot summer day and he's wearing a white dress shirt tucked into black pants, both struggling to cover his massive frame. I can't help but notice where he's headed—of course! The bathroom.

It's the only place we can't be overheard. But do I really have to do this already? What if I go in there and he's still pissing with his dick hanging out? What if someone else comes in?

I watch the door for a couple of minutes, with no sign of anyone else entering or exiting. I delay, doubt, and then somehow my legs move on their own, taking me to the bathroom door, my stomach quivering and my knees weak.

He's washing up at the sink and I hesitate in the doorway, unsure how to approach this and drawing way too much attention to myself. Ultimately, there's nothing else to do but come right out with it. I tell him the situation as quickly as I can while he stares at me, no readable reaction on his face—his incredibly handsome, rugged face, with his square jaw and hulking neck covered with a short black beard. He's around thirty, like myself, and he breaks into a crooked grin when I'm finally done with my speech.

He says, "So what makes you think it's me?"

I'm caught off-guard. "I mean, you're the only bodybuilder in the office, for one thing..."

"But anyone could be hacking into our Wi-Fi."

"Well..." My mind races and I remember one useful detail. "Th-the guy's got a tattoo on his back, between his shoulder-blades. It looks like a shuriken—a throwing star."

"So now you want to check my back?" His voice rumbles with an edge of anger; I can feel it in my gut. "Since when are strip-searches office policy? And who are you anyways? Just the IT guy."

This is going worse than I could've imagined. I'm drowning in sweat. "You don't have to. I didn't say that! Just—just be careful, is all I'm saying."

"Careful, huh? Well, I don't like being accused of something." He makes his mind up. "Come on," yanking open the door of the last stall. "Get inside. Before someone comes."

"W-what?"

"Get in. You wanted proof? You'll get it. Hurry up." And he disappears inside.

For a moment I hesitate, my heart hammering louder than ever, but there's nothing else for it. I wipe the sweat off my palms and follow him.

With his massive chest and broad shoulders and my skinny frame crammed in there too, it's a tight fit. I manage to get the door shut and when I turn around, he's just inches away from me, filling the space, the tight shirt strained over his pecs and just lightly dampened with sweat. His body heat's already warming the air, his breath touching my lips.

"This is so fucking stupid," he grumbles, and I feel the shift in the air, sense the power of his arms as he starts gripping the buttons on his shirt and yanking them apart from the collar down.

"You really think I'd use that stupid site?" He's exposing the corded curves of his pecs, his skin bronze and hairless, the trench between them so deep you could bury your face in it, lick up his sweat. My cock's swelling in bicycle-pump jerks as the buttons pop open. If he notices, I'm screwed. He'll think I'm some pervert who did this for my own amusement.

"Dumbest thing I ever heard in my life." With each button he exposes another layer of bulging abs stacked on top of each other: a sculpted eight-pack sucking his taut skin into deep grooves; and with a flick, the last button makes his shirt fall fully apart. It's like there isn't an ounce of body fat on him, and my erect dick's straining to rub over and into those ridges.

Then his muscular chest bulges forward as he struggles to pull his shirt down over his telephone-pole arms. He bumps into me, and I feel the hard pads of his pecs against my body like bowling balls. The overwhelming scent of him—the smell of sweat in his pits, the hot heavy musk of his pumped-up body—washes over me, making my dick pulse, the tip getting moist with precum against my pants. And when he finally rips the shirt off and turns around, that broad back is spread out in front of me, practically filling the length of the stall from one massive lat to the other.

And this back's got a very recognizable tattoo right between his shoulder-blades.

"Yeah, you caught me." He turns back around, wearing a smirk on his virile face. When he shrugs, muscles all over his frame respond. He balls up his shirt and tosses it onto the top of the toilet's tank. "But it looks like I've learned a little about you too."

"What? I—" Then I follow his gaze to the massive tent in my left trouser leg, the straining length stretching halfway down my thigh, the round shape of my dickhead completely visible, as well as the stain of my precum already seeping through the thin grey material. "Shit! Sorry. I just—"

"Nah, I get it." He watches me try to adjust my dick so it's less noticeable, but moving it only makes the size of my erection clearer. I may be a skinny guy, but I've got plenty of size in this department.

"Looks like you've got a fucking python," he teases, watching my pathetic efforts with amusement. "How about you show me what you're packing? It's only fair after you put me through this. Besides, I can practically see everything you've got already. It's not like you're doing a good job of hiding it. Come on. Man up. Take responsibility. Or else the door's right there."

He's right; I could leave right now. But obviously there's no way I'm doing that. I unzip, and pull out my dick with my shaking, sweaty hand. I expose all eight and a half inches of my cock: thick enough to fill any guy's fist, even that of a giant like this guy, and my heavy balls are dangling under it. My cockhead's massively swollen, wet with desire, and there's so little space between us that it accidentally presses against his huge left thigh, drooling on the tight-stretched black fabric.

He stares at my manhood, a look of disbelief on his face. "Holy shit!" he crows. "How long ARE you? How do you even get it up?"

Well, that's no problem with him squeezed into this stall with me, his eyes focused on my wobbling, leaking fuckpole. His fingers twitch and then suddenly his hand clamps down on my swollen balls, sending a shock of pleasure and pain through me.

"Just so we're clear," he says, grinning as I wince and gasp. "If you talk about me, I might have a few things to say about you. Indecent exposure in the workplace. 'He just took it out and started jerking off,'" with a tug on my balls. "'I can describe exactly what he looks like, Mr. Thompson.'"

"I—I wasn't going to tell."

"Yeah, I know. And that's why I'm being nice." His fingers start massaging my tender balls, making them burn and my cock throb. "How do you even describe a package like this, anyways? 'He had the biggest nuts I've ever seen. His sack looked like a pair of fuckin' kiwi fruit.'"

His hand moves up to grip the base of my shaft. I feel myself filling his large, firm hand. "And his dick was like a fucking salami. You could wrap both your hands around it." He does exactly that and my hips buck against him, my eyes rolling back. I steady myself against the cool metal of the wall. "Yeah, it was a real handful. And uncut, so you can just stroke up"—the pleasure screams down the length of my meat—"and back down"—Oh shit! It feels so fucking good!—"even without any lube.

"Although," he continues, keeping one hand stroking my shaft while the other rubs over my agonizingly sensitive cockhead, making me squirm and swear, "he makes plenty of lube of his own. His dickhead was just dripping all over the place." And his hand grazes my cumslit, starts moistening my entire purple glans. I buck and squirm harder than ever. It's intolerable ecstasy, dizzying and electrifying with that musclestud monitoring me with a cocky grin, his powerful body bulging everywhere.

"Fuck! That feels amazing!" I moan.

"Well, you better not cum on me. The day's only half over. If you jizz all over my pants, I really will expose you. Got it?" He squeezes my balls again just for good measure and I nod frantically.

"Besides, I plan to take some time here. I'm in no rush to get back." With one hand, he works his way slowly down my shaft, then goes all the way back up, where his other hand's still cradling my cockhead, his thumb working circles over my spitting cumslit. I can tell he's getting a hard-on too, and I can't help but stare at the weighty shape pressing at his nice work pants. "Nice and slow. Just relax."

But I've never been wound tighter in my life. I stagger again, and I reach out and grab his shoulder. The broad muscles flex under my fingers and I feel my dick throb at the same time, feeling so huge and hot in his hands, feeling his breath close to my mouth as he leans in, concentrates on his work, his muscles surrounding me and heating me and his sweat and my sweat making the air stuffy with manly odour and lust. "Don't you fucking cum! I'm ordering you!"

But the tremors are building in my cock as he jerks me off faster, the tingling starting at the base and spreading up my entire shaft, my knees quivering and my stomach flipping and my heart pounding, pounding, pounding while I leak precum and the veins down my shaft darken, my entire organ feeling so tight and swollen and getting fuller and fuller with the unbearable need to cum, the force of it building on me like a tidal wave—

"I can't—! I'm gonna—!"

"Yeah? You getting close?"

"Oh fuck! I'm—"

And that's when we both hear the bathroom door open. We freeze, his hands immobile on my cock, which twitches once, twice—I'm gonna lose it! So fucking close!—I feel the cum building at the base of my dick, but it stays there, my manhood shaking and hot but my balls still engorged with sperm.

We hear heavy footsteps headed for the urinal. Dan is mouthing at me, "On the toilet! Get on top of the toilet!" And I realize just how bad it'd be if someone noticed one extra pair of feet under the door. He turns to the side to let me past and I climb onto the flat surface of the toilet seat. Luckily, the gap above the door's small enough that all anyone could see is the ceiling, even when I'm standing up straight.

Dan is standing sideways, listening to the sounds of unzipping on the other side of the door. His left arm's right in front of me, bulging obscenely, as wide as his head, and I see the overhang of his fantastic pecs beyond, the orbs of his biceps and chest looking so sexy all in a row together in front of me.

And with me standing at this height, my cock's right about level with the inner crook of his elbow. It bumps slightly against his skin, so I feel the rock-hard bottom of his bicep against the top of my erect shaft, his vascular forearm underneath.

He looks down at his arm, makes a low tsk-tsk sound under his breath, and then raises his lower arm as if he's doing a bicep curl. My dick's slowly squeezed in a hot hard clamp as it's pinned between his veiny massive forearm and the flexed baseball of his bicep. He's so fucking strong and I gasp, my cock reddening, the veins bulging and my dickhead protruding out the other side of his contracted arm, rubbing against the bottom of his pec, a glob of honey-like precum getting squeezed out of my organ and onto his hard nipple.

The pressure loosens as he drops his arm, but then he starts doing reps with an imaginary dumbbell, each time squeezing my shaft between his bicep and forearm, putting real force into it, gritting his teeth and flexing HARD as his arm wrings my cock, precum dangling out of my cumslit and the ecstasy burning deep in my swollen member. He's getting pumped, his arm perspiring, the veins standing out luridly on that melon-like muscle tightening and loosening against my dick—especially that one massive vein running over the top, thick as a pencil.

He pins my cock tight again, and then starts turning his wrist in and out: just that simple movement causes his bicep to bunch up and loosen, so the muscle ripples and squeezes my dick again and again; and I start instinctively thrusting into that tight, tight, so fucking tight space, my foreskin making it easy even without lube, though my sweaty cock and balls are making his skin slick, making that space so hot and moist. He makes that tsk-tsk sound again, like he's admonishing me, but he only flexes his bicep faster, works my cock harder with his muscles.

I feel my cockhead bump into his pec each time I bottom out, the precum practically flooding out of me so it dribbles down the ridge of my glans, lubes up his arm too as my veiny rod rubs his pumped-up peaks, squeezed tighter and thrusting faster, trembling and dripping and—

Fuck! It's so hot and hard and tight, the incredible strength swelling again and again against me, the sight of my dick disappearing into that gap and butting up against the meaty chest on the other side. I can't take it, can't fucking take it. My cock's trembling and jerking and dripping and I'm thrusting faster and faster; his bicep's bigger and bigger, getting more and more pumped as he flexes and crushes my burning dick that suddenly stiffens up with mind-numbing force, tightens till it feels like it's about to explode and—

A fat wad of cum blasts out of my cock with an audible spurt and explodes against the stall door, ricocheting off onto his bare chest and right arm; and my dick squeezes again so another sperm-shot sprays into the first, running in rivulets down the door as I feel the waves of tingling pressure grip my cock faster and faster, the hard flexes of my dick muscles almost as tight as the feel of his bicep still clamped against me, while the semen sprays with the deep, manly satisfaction that's ten times better than the long-awaited hot full release of pissing out a full bladder—you want to keep spreading that sperm, make it coat the fucking room, even though you know the clean-up will be a bitch after.

And Dan's watching my blasting cock in astonishment. The fact that I can impress a musclegod like that makes another wave of pleasure bubble up in my dick so the next shot flies further than the last, and "Fuck!" he swears, far too loudly. We both become aware the tap was running because it's now turned off; the mystery man's voice calls out, "You okay in there?"

"Yeah," Dan replies, keeping his voice steady even as my spurts of spunk lose distance so they land on top of his bare chest, filling the grooves of his collarbone, oozing down the cleft between his melon-like pecs. "Just... checking something on my phone."

I manage to suppress a laugh, and then have to brace myself against the wall, looking down at the mess of cum dripping off the door and gleaming wetly over the musclestud's tanned chest as my dick finally stops spitting, sore and red and wet and feeling so good.

"Is that you, Dan?" the voice on the other side of the door continues. "Jeff was looking for you. You're almost done, right?"

He swears silently, but calls out, "Yeah... Be right out." And finally we hear steps receding and the door closing.

"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!" Dan looks down at my load all over the walls, floor, and his muscles. "I told you not to cum."

"I'll clean it up!" I tell him, and I start sopping up the spooge on his chest with toilet paper. The feel of my hands on his body makes me wish I was cleaning it up with my tongue. I'd lick every inch of him if he'd let me.

"At least there isn't much on my pants. And my shirt's fine. I'd better—"

"Go! I'll finish up." It's the least I can do, and it ends up taking less time than I expect. I still feel like everyone's staring when I finally return to my desk, though. I'm sure I stink of sweat and sperm, so it's lucky I work alone.

The second half of the day drags on, and far from feeling like I've blown my load, it's like I haven't cum in a month. I can't get the sight of that herculean body out of my head, the feel of his massive veined-up bicep swelling against my cock, squeezing out sprays of spunk. My balls are aching, my dick stiffening every time my mind wanders.

There's no sign of Dan when I get off work, but when I'm outside waiting for the bus, a car pulls up and he's inside, waving me over.

"We've got unfinished business, you and I," he says, reaching across the passenger seat to open the door. "Get in. We've gotta talk."

I don't hesitate. His car is filled with the manly smell of him, and it's hot with the sun beating on the roof and no air conditioner running. I see sweat running down his neck and pooling in his collarbone like my gooey seed did earlier.

"We never settled things," he says, pulling out into traffic. "Did you take care of it?"