Beat off in the toilets

You push back from the desk, the ache in your cock too sharp to ignore any longer. The corridor to the men’s washroom feels longer than usual. You step inside, check that the outer door is clear, then take the farthest stall and lock it behind you.

Trousers open. Briefs shoved down just enough. Your cock springs free, thick and already leaking, the full 8.5 inches heavy in your fist. You spit into your palm and start stroking hard, no finesse, just the need to get off before the pressure drives you crazy.

Cheryl fills your head immediately. That lean yoga body, brunette hair the same shade as Natasha’s but framing a face that never softens. You picture her bent over the conference table in Room B, skirt hiked up, pure toned arse presented like an invitation. You imagine driving into that tight hole, wiping the smug, aloof look off her face with every deep thrust while she tries to keep her voice steady and fails. The thought of her crystals and astrology nonsense only makes it hotter, the idea of fucking the superiority right out of her.

Your fist works faster. Precome slicks the way. You bite the inside of your cheek to stay quiet as the climax hits, thick ropes spilling over your knuckles and onto the floor of the stall. The release is sharp and necessary, but it does nothing to quiet the rest of the hunger still coiled low in your gut.

You clean up as best you can, wash your hands at the sink, and walk back to your desk with the same unfinished edge you carried in.