Cubicle Casanova
by

Jonathan Byrd is a pill-popping, boner-hopping, nihilist, NSA wage slave with a penchant for shirking his duties and stumbling out of his pants. When he meets a Texas man with broad shoulders and a $5000 suit, Jonathan decides to pencil him in. (M/M)

 





Genres: , ,
Collections: ,
Editor(s): James L. Wolf
Cover Designer(s): Siol na Tine
Cover Art Credits: Photo by Curaphotography at Dreamstime.
Production Editor(s): Erika L. Firanc
Proofreader(s): Kailin Morgan
Length: Short Story (5,700 Words)
Chapter(s): 1
Publication Date: April 1, 2014
Serialization Date: March 25, 2018
Archive(d) on April 8, 2018
Tags: , , , ,

Characters:
Consent

N/A

Sex:
BDSM

N/A

Story:


Click Here to Read An Excerpt

When it was over I collapsed backward and was beginning to disembark when I heard the doorknob click. I dove under the desk and saw him pull his shirt closed over the sticky mess I’d made in the lowlands between his stony pecs. He pushed his chair forward and I heard Carol’s voice from the doorway.

“Honey, are you okay?”

“Yes, dear.”

The Torch’s pants were down around his ankles. I was stuck in the space between his big hairy legs smelling smegma, lube, sweat and the fearful stink of a cornered husband. His long, snakelike cock was draped on the pleather seat of his chair, sleeping between his legs and drooling like a toothless octogenarian. I shifted around in the confined space and then snaked my hand up to stroke his cock.

“…after work if you want to,” he was saying. “I…uh…um…”

I moved forward, pushing his legs aside and letting the snake slide between my lips.

“Gary, just spit it out,” she said. Hand to God, those were her exact words.

He coughed and said something about having a phone conference.

“Well you better button up your shirt, honey. A man who dresses like a professional…”

“…is a professional.” He finished the sentence and they exchanged interminable good-byes and I-love-yous and have-a-blessed-days. When I heard the doorknob click shut again, he reached down and grabbed my head, shoving himself inside me until he was knocking my uvula around like a piñata. When he finally came, he made that same damn groaning noise and I half expected the door to be flung open again, this time by paramedics called by some overzealous passerby, but nothing happened. He deposited half a gallon of spooge down my gullet then reeled in his cock. “That was totally insane, Jason. We have to stop doing this,” he said. “When can I see you again?”

It was probably just as well he got my name wrong. He figured it out later, but by then he’d already grown accustomed to whispering “Jason, fuck me harder,” or conversely, “Jason, take me all the way inside, baby,” that it was easier just to stick with the misnomer. Makes me no nevermind. So when we meet up for our periodic closet or bathroom or office quickies, he always calls me Jason.

Yeah. And so now you’re probably thinking: Hey wait, didn’t he say the thing with the Torch was ancient history?

Yeah, I said that.

Screw you, gentle reader; I lied.




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