1 Chapter 1

I’ve always had a penchant for going commando. Oh sure, it saves big bucks on boxers, but mostly it’s because I long ago found that if I cut holes in the front pockets of my pants, I could play with my cock any time of the day. It looks like I’m searching for some change or car keys or the like, but in actuality I’m pulling my pud, stroking my rod, yanking my nuts, and trying my darndest not to shoot a load down my leg—and all in broad daylight, for the whole world to see. Or, that is to say, of course, notsee.

Oh, and of course, if I can reach in, my cock can also come out. In fact, freeing Willy has become a sort of favorite pastime of mine.

Sitting at my desk at work, safe in my cubicle, I pull my prick through the hole, where it juts up, hard as granite, resting comfortably inside my pocket as I squeeze and tease my leaking helmeted head. On occasion I even sheath the beast and rip off a heavy one, a mere few feet away from several coworkers on either side of my cubicle walls.

And, best yet, I’ve never been caught.

That is to say, I’d never been caught before now.

Like any pastime, mine became second nature, a habit—and one that I’d grown lazy trying to keep a secret. And secrets, in any environment where people are trying to get ahead, are better kept hidden, locked away—or, as the case may be, zippered up.

“Hi, Brad,” said my coworker, Lou, that fateful day. “What’s up?”

I hated Lou. I mean really and truly totally fucking hated. See, the guy was always trying to one-up me, stealing my ideas and then taking the credit, undermining me in front of the bigwigs. Plus, he was handsome as all hell and well aware of it. In other words, he was an egotistical prick. Meaning, hate was not too strong a word.

This is why, when he walked around my desk and stood behind me, I knew something was wrong. “Um, not much up here,” I replied, clenching my jaw. “Something you lost?”

He laughed and bent down, his breath warming the nape of my neck. “Nope. Something I found, though.” Then he did something that surprised the shit out of me. On my desk, he tossed a come-filled rubber. A blue one. And one that I recognized from the day before.

My heart skipped a beat. “Couldn’t wait until you got home, Lou?” I asked, trying to stall the inevitable.

“I might ask you the same question; it was in your trashcan,” he whispered in my ear, low and deep and wickedly calm.

“Um, you in the habit of rummaging through the trash these days?”

Again he laughed. “Never know what you might find,” he replied, before adding, “What you might find that can be used to your advantage, I mean.”

A pit the size of a lemon instantly formed in my belly. “You can’t prove it’s mine,” I whispered, quickly tossing the evidence back in the trash.

He reached around and began typing on my keyboard, opening up a site that grew that pit to watermelon-sized proportions: www.bradjacksatwork.com. There was a single icon on the all-white screen. “It’s amazing how small they make cams these days, Brad,” he said, staring at the screen, his face two inches to the side of my own, his taut body leaning over the side of my chair as he clicked the link. “Small enough to tape to the underside of a desk even.”

My screen filled with an image of my lap, then of the head of my cock poking up and out of my front pocket, and then of a blue rubber getting slid over it, and, after a quick jerk-off session, that same rubber, the rubber now in my trashcan, turning white from within. “Shame,” he told me, “if this ever became public.”

A red flush of rage rose up my neck. “What would it take for this to go, um, away?”

He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he spoke in my ear, “That must be a big dick you got there, Brad. I mean, for it to reach out of your pocket like that, all thick and hard and slick.” I gulped, surprised at the turn in the conversation. And then he upped the ante. “Can I see it?”

I turned to look at him, his eyes right in front of mine, sparkling blue beneath the harsh overhead lights, his breath mixing with my own, and I asked, “Um, are you trying to get me fired or get me off, Lou?”

He smirked and looked up and over my computer, outside of my cubicle, making sure the coast was clear. “Why would I want to get you fired?” he asked, his hand gliding over my arm, which he squeezed tightly, sending a surprising jolt to my crotch.