Poor Topher By Benji Bright
Christopher Ram was a precocious, tenacious child whose curiosity about sex and the male form extended far beyond his limited knowledge of such things. But his hunger to learn more was cemented later when he happened across a pervert openly masturbating in a nearby park. He watched this degenerate with his outsized cock and big, bouncing, overfull balls for longer than was advisable. And, in turn, the pervert watched him.
Christopher, who went by Topher by this time, was changed utterly.
Topher developed a relationship with his own anatomy that medical professionals might deem compulsive, but Topher had no use for pathologizing talk. In his mind, he simply enjoyed himself and that was that. Besides, Topher thinks, as long as I'm getting my work done, what's the harm?
But is he getting his work done? As we check in with Topher at present we find his feet tapping out a presto tempo with the heel of his Italian leather sole. His mind is not full of spread sheets and datebooks. Rather predictably, he's thinking about cocks. Porn cocks and the cocks of ex-lovers and his own cock which is currently filling out the tight quarters of his navy pinstripe suit. His slavering desire is as debauched as his dress is conservative. He considers his boss's cock and how much Topher would enjoy it unloading all over his face and hair. He hasn't seen his boss's cock, not completely, but he's snuck glances at the older man's package. Anyone would, Topher thinks, and though he is wrong, we cannot tell him so, because he's unshakably sure that all men share his secret desires.
Topher bears this torture for as long as he can before excusing himself to the restroom. He chooses to use his boss's private bathroom, accessed with a code that only he and his boss share. Topher assumes that his boss will be gone for lunch for the hour. He doesn't know--as he gets down on his knees, pulls his dripping dickhead out of the fly of his slacks, and douses it with lubricant that he carries on his person always--that his boss has already returned from a cancelled lunch meeting and is in a foul mood.
So Topher, eyes shut and mind full of candy-sweet fantasies of silver haired men forcing him into increasingly perverse poses, is in a distracted reverie when his direct supervisor opens the door and walks into the bathroom.
"So this is how you spend your lunch hour?"
Topher's eyes snap open. He is caught with his pants around his ankles and his cock in hand. There is no explanation for his behavior, yet like an animal caught fast in a trap, he struggles against the inevitable.
"I...I'm sorry. I...I was distracted. I thought maybe..." Topher sputters.
"You thought you'd jerk off in my bathroom. You thought screw professionalism: I'm feeling a bit horny, eh?"
"No. That's not. Well..."
"Well, why not."
"Why not?" Topher asks, confused. His cock is still in hand. He's still on his knees. Against his better judgment, he takes a peek at his boss's crotch. There's a significant bulge in the front. Has it always been like that? Or is it bigger now? Topher wonders hopefully.
"Why not screw professionalism? Finish what you've started."
"I'm not..." Topher clears his throat. "What are you suggesting, sir?"
"If you want to keep your job. Finish what you've started. I'll stand here and make sure this comes to satisfactory conclusion. Then you go back to your desk and reschedule my noon meeting."
"Are you sure...sir?" Topher asks, but he's already running his hand up and down the length of his cock. It's swollen to full-size now, harder than full-size; Topher has an audience now.
Topher has replayed that day in the park in his mind over and over: watching that pervert beat his meat in the open. And most often he finds himself reversing the roles: wishing that he had been stroking himself in the open air while someone else happened upon him in the middle of the deed. The fantasy is always enough to make Topher shoot his load, heavy and full, all over himself. But until now it has remained just that: a fantasy.
"We haven't got all day, Topher. Please don't waste my time. Or yours. You're on company time after all."
And poor Topher finds himself improbably, impossibly turned on by this scenario. His boss, standing there in an outfit easily worth a month of Topher's salary, is commanding him to masturbate before him. The power differential makes Topher's mouth dry and his cock firm up in his hand. He wants to do a good job. He's so eager to please, but no matter how diligently he touches himself--long, wet strokes with an inverted grip--his boss just stands and regards him dispassionately.
"Quickly, Topher. Or do you aim to jerk away the rest of the day?"
Topher finds he cannot bear the onslaught of his boss's withering disapproval. Desperate signals radiate out from his brain like a corona of stimulation and the signals strike his cock with pinpoint accuracy. He makes a strangled noise and blasts spunk across the bathroom. One spurt from the breathless orgasm engine manages to glance off of one of the the boss's pristine brown boots. The man looks around at the mess that Topher is STILL making and then at his own shoe.
"Give me your tie."
Topher, working out the last of his cum with his left-hand, reaches up and undoes his tie with his right. He offers it like a tribute to his employer who bends down and wipes the cum from his shoe. His boss, looks down at Topher, who is on his knees idly stroking his still-hard prick.
"Open your mouth."
Topher does so and his boss slowly, methodically, stuffs the tie into Topher's mouth. He can tastes his own cum on the silk. The realization makes him dizzy with desire.
"Now clean up in here and get back to work. Next time I catch you, you're going to take off your slacks and use them to clean up."
His boss leaves and Topher puts his erection away. He goes around the bathroom wiping up all evidence of his cum while his cock, still improbably hard, presses urgently against him pants.
Topher has to spend the rest of the day catching up with work while knowing his boss is sitting behind him, watching him through the glass walls of his corner office. Unsurprisingly, this makes it more difficult for Topher for to work. Topher's erection plagues him: it leaks so liberally into the fabric of his finely cut pants that it leaves a damp spot the size of a silver dollar.
His boss leaves work at 5 p.m. and on the way out says, "goodbye, Topher. Don't overwork yourself" without specifically mentioning the bathroom incident. Topher can't help but hear a note of mockery in the other man's voice that makes Topher's nipples stand up straight against his thin cotton shirt. As he watches his boss's ass bounce away in those stunningly tailored pants, Topher considers abusing himself in the bathroom again, but decides against it. After all, he has dinner plans with his boyfriend.
Oh, yes, Topher--masturbator and fantasist--has a long-term partner with whom he shares an apartment, half of the financial responsibilities, and a laconic French bulldog. Is it irresponsible for someone so focused on his own pleasure to be tied to someone else's happiness? Perhaps, but as Topher will soon discover, his needs are not the only ones that can be met extracurricularly.
When Jack doesn't answer his phone, Topher figures that his boyfriend is running late at work and decides to go home and shower before heading out to the restaurant where the two are meant to meet. He is excited that Jack might be late, because it clears a path for a clandestine masturbation session before going back out. Topher thinks of all the porn awaiting him on his laptop. He reminds himself that he will have to be quick, but with thoughts of his boss's disapproving grimace fresh in his mind, he doubts it will take him long.
But as Topher arrives home, he finds his boyfriend's shoes by the door along with another, unfamiliar pair. He follows the muffled groans to the bedroom and pushes the door open to find his partner on his knees with a burly, bearded man behind him. Neither Jack nor the man he's cheating with misses a beat.
"Oh fuck!" Jack cries, then, "Oh. You're home."
It occurs to Topher that this first cry was not one of surprise, but of pleasure. The man fucking his boyfriend spits down on his own dick and returns it to Jack's willing, more than willing hole. Jack wails like a stuck pig.
"Jack? What is this?" Topher says idiotically. It is, after all, quite obvious what this is.
If you are inclined to feel sorry for Topher, recall his own earlier adventure, and be glad that your knowledge of his sordid fantasies run shallow. Even now, at this moment when disgust and rage would be at the forefront of a greater human specimen's mind, Topher's cock is filling out the front of his work trousers.
"Ignore him, Bruno. Just don't stop. God, it feels so good," Jack says.
Bruno, who has barely spared a glance for this slack-jawed newcomer, doesn't need to be told his business. After all, Jack's hole is wet and tight around his cock and after weeks of flirtatious back and forth, Jack has finally agreed to let Bruno fuck his bare hole and fill it to the brim with his seed. Bruno has been saving this load up for days now and short of an ax-murderer busting through the door--and maybe even then--he has every intention of making good on this promise.
Jack, on the contrary, feels a little bad. He never meant for Topher to see this. His boyfriend is sweet, but his sex drive is pitiful and Jack needs to be used. As Bruno attacks his hole with vigor, Jack feels like every synapse in his mind is firing simultaneously. His ass clamps down against the assault, which only spurs Bruno to fuck him harder. And deeper. Jack can't help but make noise. He knows that the neighbors will hear, that people walking by outside their first-floor window will hear, that God himself in his endless fucking heavens will hear, and that Topher--sweet, boring Topher--will hear.
But Jack is being fucked by a cock so long and thick that he's already dribbled several loads worth of seminal fluid into the sheets.
Topher and God can go fuck themselves, Jack thinks.
And Topher? Our self-pleasuring protagonist? What does he think of this twist of fate? Well, he takes the tie--still wet with his spit--out of his pocket and ties it around his cock and balls while Bruno and Jack watch with distant interest. His cock is hard and the makeshift tourniquet makes it all the more so. He masturbates to the scene before him like it was pornography. He masturbates as if the bodies were there for his pleasure, because this is not dissimilar from the inciting incident of his gnarled sexuality. He was no more invited to this scene than he was to the man jerking himself off in the park. So he retrieves the tiny bottle of lube from his pocket and slathers his dick with it. And he masturbates.
"Jack, you didn't mention your boyfriend was a fucking pervert," Bruno says, continuing to ram himself inside his screaming sex partner.
"I didn't know...he'd just watch..." Jack says.
Topher doesn't speak up for himself. Beside, what would he say? Please continue fucking my boyfriend so that I can jerk myself off to it? Please do to him what he wishes I'd do to him every night before I reach over and turn out the lights? Please do my fucking job for me, stranger?
He doesn't say these things, because Bruno clearly doesn't need to hear them. Instead, the brute grabs Jack's hair and pulls his head back like reins.
"Tell me you want me to seed your cunt while your boyfriend watches."
"Oh fuck--" Jack says.
"Oh fuck--" Topher says. And it's too much for the masturbator. His trigger inadvertently fondled, he begins to spew onto the carpet in a profusion of jizz. Bruno watches and laughs, which only makes Topher cum harder. Jack feels a touch of embarrassment for his boyfriend's premature arrival, but he's too busy with the thorough satiation of his ass to spare much more than brief compassion.
"Don't stop. Keep fucking me. Oh god, I'm so close," Jack says.
Topher, breathing hard, unwraps the tie from his genitals, and backs out of the room.
There's nowhere in the small apartment that he can go and not hear the sounds of his boyfriend being fucked. Despite Jack's assertion that he was so close the animal noises persist for the next hour, then the next two. The sun sets and the two men are still at it, though the noises shift to the tell-tale lip smacking of kisses and oral sex. Topher, poor Topher, is hold up on the couch with the dog who eyes him pitifully. Topher holds out for as long as he can before the noises trigger his erection once again and he slides his cock into his palm where it belongs.
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