Worplace Standards

All participants are over 18.

*****

The dreaded day arrived: Monday. My two weeks of vacation ended and it was time to go back to work.

I called in an hour before my office shift and, to my great relief, I successfully arranged to work from home for three days, but there was no avoiding returning to the office on Thursday for the team meeting. I was well-equipped for working remotely, and my work was completed just as efficiently as if I'd been in the office.

During a break, I called the laser therapy clinic in my city to make an appointment for tattoo removal. The first appointment would be a consultation and treatments would begin a week later with the goal of breaking down the inks in the tattoo to render it invisible. Unfortunately, the earliest they could fit me in was four weeks away. I made the appointment anyway, but I called around to other clinics in town and beyond, hoping to get seen sooner. They were just as heavily booked.

I managed to get through my first two days working from home without having to participate in online video conferences. Wednesday, I had to join in, so I wore my toque. It was against the company dress code, but some leeway was allowed when you were working from home. Nobody mentioned it, but I dreaded tomorrow's office day.

Thursday morning dawned and I sat up in bed, naked, sweaty and exhausted. I didn't know if I was so tired because my sleep was fitful with worry and bad dreams, or because Curtis, the pizza delivery man who used me regularly, had fucked me three times the night before. In fact, Curtis himself had been exhausted and this was the first time he spent the night over at my place. He was an unattached male, so nobody was waiting for him at home.

My movement woke the sleeping satyr, and Curtis, just as naked as I was, soon had my mouth working on his morning wood. When he was sufficiently stimulated, he told me to ride him. I had been so well used the night before, I was still heavy lubricated and quite easy to open. He lay on his back and, with one knee on either side of his hips, I slowly lowered my ass and he used his hands to spread my butt cheeks. I impaled myself on his cock, remembering that this was not my favourite position; I wasn't an athlete and my knees and leg muscles burned with fatigue after just a few minutes of rocking back and forth on my knees. Curtis compensated by thrusting upward until he too was tired. He rolled me off him and his cock dropped out of me with a faint pop.

Once I was laying on my back, he spread my legs and leaned in to me, for the first time kissing me on the mouth. I responded to the kiss as I felt his organ throbbing between my buttocks. He pressed his way back into me and fucked me hard, keeping his lips locked on mine. His hairy belly rubbed against my erection and within minutes, I had sprayed my jizz all over our bellies. My ejaculation set off the usual contractions in my ass, adding a pulsing tightness to my hole. It was enough to trigger Curtis' own orgasm. I felt my asshole brimming with cock and cum. There was another wet plop sound as he pulled his dick out of my backside; my expanded asshole allowed the thin, watery semen to run out of my crack, soaking the bedsheets beneath me. Curtis wiped his cock and belly with the other side of the sheet.

Nothing was said. Curtis dressed and left. That was about the most romantic it ever got with Curtis.

I took a shower, and already my thoughts turned from my sexual gratification to concerns for my work-day. I washed myself and shaved off the stubble of my hair and beard. In all other respects than my tattoo, I would look entirely presentable.

I dressed in my best semi-formal, workplace-approved suit of clothes. The last piece of my apparel was dictated by my tattoo. I had to wear the woolen toque to cover the inscription across my forehead.

The bus ride to work was uneventful, and nobody gave me a second look. Upon arrival at my office building, I joined work friends for the elevator ride to the fourteenth floor. A few people in the office looked at me as if to remind me that my hat violated the dress code, but nobody actually said anything. I dared to hope I might brass it out. I settled down at my work console and logged in. My mind drifted away from my embarrassing problem as I became absorbed by my duties.

Nobody questioned my headgear until first break. Jack Foster asked if I had a bad haircut to hide, partly as a joke because he knew I kept my head clean-shaven. I noticed that a few others in the break room were paying attention to our conversation. Maybe some were perceptive enough to be curious about what I was hiding, but nobody else actually said anything. I laughed it off and the conversations in the break room continued.

After the break, our team filled board room number one for the staff meeting. We were all seated and chatting amongst ourselves when Mr. Flax, our manager, entered the room and took his place at the head of the table. The man was practically the picture of Oliver Hardy of the old comedy duo: obese, pear-shaped, balding, and in all other ways, average.

He zeroed in on me instantly.

"Welcome back from vacation," he said in a steely, cold voice. "Maybe you forgot, but hats aren't permitted in this workplace."

I wished he had forgotten.

"Are you wearing that for religious reasons?"

"Uh, no..." I mumbled.

"Take it off," he said.

I sputtered impotently.

"I can't."

"You're not doing me a favour. If you want to work here, you have to follow the regulations."

"Can I... can I talk to you out in the hall, Mr. Flax?"

"You can talk to me privately after the meeting. First, take off your hat."

I was cornered. Every eye in the room was on me. Everyone there knew the workplace dress code, and they all knew I was in violation. I saw the curiosity in their eyes as they wondered why I should defy so simple a directive. My hands moved slowly, like in a dream, reaching for the toque. I felt myself pulling the hat off my head. My tattoo was exposed to my entire team.

A few of my teammates gasped, and one or two stifled laughter. Nobody could believe what they were reading on my forehead. My face reddened and I sniffed back a sob. Yet, embarrassment was not all I felt; a small part of me was jubilant to be exposed for what I really am.

"I see," Flax said. "Is that design drawn in marker?"

"It's a tattoo," I confirmed.

Shock was giving way to mirth among my fellow team members. Jack Foster whispered something to Dorothy Peters beside him and they both burst out laughing. I trembled, unsure which way to jump.

"Tattoos above the neck are prohibited in this office. Go wait for me in my office."

"Yessir." I wasn't looking forward to our interview, but I was happy to leave the room full of gawkers. I started to put my hat back on, but Flax interrupted.

"No, you can't wear the hat. Go as you are."

I reluctantly rose from the table. I was surprised and humiliated to learn I had a tent in my pants. My exposure aroused me somehow. The whole team erupted in laughter as I made my way toward the hallway. I left the conference room and closed the door. I waited a few seconds and heard my work friends talking about me.

I walked across the floor of the open-concept office. Michelle was coming out of the copy room as I passed, and when she saw my tattoo, she clapped her hand over her mouth in surprise. I kept walking, so I don't know if her expression turned to shock or humour. Next, I met Ed Villiers, another team leader, as he came out of his office. He looked like he was going to deal with me summarily, so I had to tell him that Mr. Flax was already managing me; I was going to wait in his office at his instructions. Villiers' brow furrowed, but he was content to let my direct manager address the problem. Finally, I ran into Cheryl, the main receptionist, and I knew that was it for keeping a lid on my problem; Cheryl was one of the office gossips and she would quickly spread word of my 'CUMSLUT' tattoo far and wide.

I sat in Mr. Flax's office for almost an hour, the scheduled length of the team meeting. The office door was open and I could hear more than the usual chatter in the workplace and a great deal of laughter. The minutes ticked by like years as I memorized the details of the office: one desk, one chair behind it and two facing it. A framed print of Rodin's The Thinker was surrounded by various diplomas and certificates Mr. Flax had earned in his college years right up to a management training course he had participated in the year before. His desk was unsentimental: no framed photographs, no souvenirs, no personal items whatsoever; there was just a lamp, a telephone and a laptop with mouse. The room reflected Flax's business-like personality.

"Okay," Mr. Flax said, announcing his arrival. He closed and locked the office door behind him before closing the blinds over the office-facing window panes. I was grateful to be out of sight of my judging colleagues, but that wasn't the reason Flax covered the windows, and I was experienced enough in exposing this tattoo to know what was likely to happen next. I sighed. Flax wasn't my type at all, but as he stood on the other side of his desk, his respectable dick made a point in his pants and I found myself responding. Not only was my erection back, but my mouth was watering the way it always did when cock was dangled before me. As I realized what I would soon be doing, I had to admit I really was a cumslut.

"So, you came in here today with that on your face. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't tattooed voluntarily, sir. I was unconscious when this was done to me."

"Fine, sorry to hear that, but you know our policies and you showed up to work anyway. You must have known there would be consequences."

"Yes, I know."

"Your continuation or termination in this job is largely mine to decide; HR merely rubber stamps most of my decisions."

"Please, sir. I need this job."

The truth was that this was a good-paying, nine-to-five job and it was only a short commute from home. If I lost this, I would have to start somewhere else and work from the bottom up, but what reputable company would hire me with 'CUMSLUT' branded on my forehead? I'd been told it could be removed over a period of months, but I needed my job to make the money to pay for the procedure.

"I'll tell you what," Mr. Flax said. "I'll defer the entire matter to the Human Resources department, where they might believe your story and give you leeway that I can't. I'll add my testimonial that you are one of my best workers, which after all is true. I'd be sorry to lose you."

"Thank you, Mr. Flax!" I was beyond grateful.

"In return, all you have to do is get me off in three minutes. Live up to your new name, Cumslut."

I expected as much and took no offence; nothing comes free, and lately the price I paid was always pretty much the same. Could I trust Mr. Flax to keep his word? I had worked for him for two years and always found him firm, but fair. I trusted him to keep his promise. Not that I had a choice. Still, nobody was forcing me.

Mr. Flax wore a white shirt with black tie and a black day-to-day business suit. Now he unbuttoned the pants and opened his zipper and revealed his one-eyed monster. It was impressive ("firm but fair," I thought again wryly) but since this adventure began, I had learned to deep-throat up to nine inches; next to that, Mr. Flax's seven inches should be a walk in the park for me.

I was accustomed to Mr. Flax looking stern and demanding; that's the kind of old-fashioned boss he was. As I fell to my knees in front of him, I saw something else: he had a look of pure, unadulterated lust in his eyes. He sat in his office chair and leaned back, spreading his legs to give me access; I wriggled in so I could kneel between his thighs. His cock was cut and standing at attention. I savoured the lust I inspired. As degrading as being a marked cumslut could be, it also had its sensual rewards.

I already knew that the most challenging part about this task was going to be dealing with Mr. Flax's big belly; it hung over his cock and limited access. I would need to compensate for every disadvantage in order to meet Mr. Flax's condition for supporting me at HR.

"Three minutes begins... now."

I wrapped a hand around his cock. It rested in a nest of black pubic hair. I suspected that Mr. Flax was a hairy man if you could see him naked; I had never seen him in so much as short sleeves to confirm my suspicion.

I leaned in and took the bulbous, reddish-purple cock-head in my mouth, immediately subjecting it to a vigorous, full-on tongue massage. I had been exercising my tongue a lot lately; it was quite a strong muscle now, and slow to tire. As I expected, Mr. Flax's belly restricted my range of movement over his cock, but I was compensating handsomely.

I had three minutes to get Mr. Flax off, and he was already moaning in the first thirty seconds. I jacked the root end of his dick with my right hand while using the other hand to play with his bag. I let my fingers slip off his balls to traipse ever so lightly over his perineum, that fleshy bridge between his scrotum and his anus. Mr. Flax just sat back in his chair and enjoyed it all.

The phone rang. For a moment, I thought Flax would answer it, but in the end, he let it go to voicemail.

"Oh, fuck," Flax said through clenched teeth as I nipped lightly with my teeth at his dick. Then I surprised him by switching gears; I hid my teeth behind my lips and inhaled him to the full length of his seven inches. I was proud that I was able to suppress my gag instinct this time; I didn't cough and sputter. Instead, I started bouncing back and forth on Flax's cock. The top of my shaved head rubbed against my manager's belly.

"We're two minutes in..." Flax said between heavy breaths. He had set a countdown on his phone. The man was out of shape and tired easily. "Sixty seconds left... to get me off... or you face HR alone."

I didn't need any additional motivation; I fully understood what was at stake. In fact, despite the pressure, I was quite calm. I was focused on pleasing Mr. Flax; in the zone, as they say. I already knew I was up to the challenge.

I was, after all, a cumslut.

Mr. Flax was thinking about that too. He had placed his hands on the sides of my head. He didn't attempt to force me or control my rhythm. Instead, he moved his right hand and used a finger to trace the letters engraved on my forehead.

"Cumslut," he said out loud. He looked at his phone. "Thirty seconds left."

I knew he was close and I resolved to finish him. As I bobbed back and forth against his crotch, I switched it up and reintroduced some tongue action; once more I licked in spirals around the head of his cock. This alone was going to be enough stimulation to push Mr. Flax over the edge, but at T-minus twenty-five seconds, I played my ace in the hole... literally.

My left hand had continued to massage the flesh between his anus and his balls. Now I let that finger trace its way up into Mr. Flax's ass-crack, until it pressed against the man's rosebud. With a little push, my digit entered Flax's asshole.

Mr. Flax groaned louder than he should have; the walls between the offices were thin. He didn't come in spurts; instead, his semen just unloaded in a steady stream. I was careful not to let any of the cum escape my mouth and soil my manager's black pants.

I backed off and looked at Mr. Flax, who had come down to earth enough to watch the countdown on his phone. He stopped the countdown with five seconds to spare.

"Did you swallow it?" Flax asked in a husky, breathless voice.

I was still kneeling before him. I opened my mouth and showed him the pearly-white, sparkling mass of cum I had collected on my tongue and in my throat. Then I closed my mouth and gulped loudly.

"You really are a cumslut."

"Will you keep your promise?"

"I will write an e-mail on your behalf right now. You always were one of my top performers."

Yeah, just one of the top performers, I thought. I was pretty sure no one else on the team was blowing him.

I rose to my feet; my erection was still obvious. I knew there would be no reciprocation of my efforts to please. If Flax kept his word, that would be more than ample satisfaction from the encounter.

I resumed my seat on the other side of the desk, near the door. I waited patiently as Mr. Flax wrote his e-mail to HR, interrupted several times by phone calls. When he was finished composing the memo, he let me come around to his side of the desk so I could read what he typed up on the laptop. He had kept his word. The recommendation was hearty and convincing and reflected well on my high-performance levels. It also called on HR to accommodate me by giving me a special exemption from the dress code so I could wear a hat. I watched him address the communication to Jason Big Sky, senior HR representative. He hit 'send'.

He contacted Mr. Big Sky directly through the company's online messaging tool. The two communicated for a short time before Mr. Flax turned his attention back to me.

"I've made an appointment for you to see Jason. He and I generally see eye-to-eye. I can't guarantee he will accommodate you, but I've done what I can. The rest is up to you."

I thanked Mr. Flax and he sheepishly thanked me back. As I said, I don't think he was used to being blown by his staff, and the whole event was out of character for him.

This tattoo had almost as magical an effect on others as it did on me.

The appointment was in the Human Resources department, upstairs on the fifteenth floor. Mr. Flax relented and allowed me to leave his office with my hat firmly pulled down to my eyebrows.

I was grateful to have the elevator to myself on the way up to HR. I was early for the appointment, so I sat on a chair outside Jason Big Sky's office. The HR receptionist and the occasional passing employee scowled at me for wearing my hat. There was nothing I could do about that. I wondered if the rumour mill had already piped news of my tattoo up to the fifteenth floor already.

Precisely on the hour, Mr. Big Sky opened his door and called me in.

I sat myself down in his modest office, facing him across his desk. He was a barrel-chested man with long, straight black hair. He was about forty.

"So," Mr. Big Sky said. "I've had a glowing tribute to you dropped in my e-mail inbox today. That's usually a bad sign."

He looked at me and I stared back. I wasn't giving anything away yet.

"Here's what I know so far. You're one of Mr. Flax's best team members, completing assignments on time and working overtime as required. You also have perfect attendance for the past two years. This is all in your manager's e-mail. Now, what I'm hearing is that you insisted on wearing a cap at work today, even though there are strict rules against such headgear in the professional dress code. I assume the cap in question is the one you're wearing. I'm given to understand that you are hiding something under there."

I nodded.

"This is the part where you show me what's under the hat."

I didn't have a choice, but each time I was exposed, it seemed to get easier. Was I coming to terms with being a cumslut? I whipped the cap off, rather like pulling off a band-aid. I watched helplessly as Mr. Big Sky read the damning label on my forehead.

"Why did you do this to yourself?"

"I didn't. I was unconscious when it was done."

"Explain."

So, I went back through my story. I disclosed in confidence to Mr. Big Sky that I was bisexual. A drunken club night ended with me being picked up by a stranger I believed was named Vance. I passed out and vomited on my date, which offended Vance. When I woke up, I was home (I still didn't know how I got back there) and I was wearing this tattoo. Since then, I had tried to hide the mark, but several men saw it and became sexually aggressive toward me. (I didn't tell Big Sky that I had sex with all of those men.) I explained that I had tried to have the tattooist charged, but even though he has struck before, the police treat him like an urban legend. I investigated ways to have the tattoo removed, but every expert I consulted said the same thing: it would take months of laser therapy appointments to eradicate the ink. I had faced a dilemma in coming to work today: did I violate the rule prohibiting tattoos above the neck (embarrassing myself in the process), or did I violate the rule prohibiting hats in the workplace?