He walks, hurriedly with a fast-paced haste, his patent-leather loafers scuffing the already worn wood floor, as he makes his way from the meeting room of the munitions plant to an adjoining men's washroom on the same floor. He slams through the closed heavy wooden solid panel door, after forcefully pushing it open and entering, frustrated and holding back the overwhelming urge, before he can get in front of the porcelain bowl, unzip, before the impulse, for the 'need to relieve' overtakes him. The toilet sits like an ominous white porcelain beacon, which it is, against the painted interior wall, next to an equally white-colored washbasin to the left of the water-based throne.
In this time, the Second World War that rages across the whole of Nazi Occupied Europe, devastating and demeaning the weary, battle-hindered people. The belligerent Nazi's are fighting an ongoing battle against the determined and vigilant Allies. The Axis is determined to win, no matter the cost but the Allies need a new invention, a new and better strategy, an upper hand in the fight against the damnable Axis of Evil, consisting of three dictators, and those that follow them, blindly. The battles rage on, the war has yet to be won but the Allied Nations have the hope that they will be victorious.
This is why they meet, the men seated back in the meeting room, to foster new ideas to fight this persistent threat.
He and the men, in the meeting room where he just left in a hurry, are in the midst of an impromptu design meeting in one of the many munitions plants that the government created across the whole of the United States of America. They mull over plans for a new weapon, in hopes it may turn the tide across Europe against the damnable Axis threat. However, nature has other plans for him at the present, which is more pressing, which has taken a hold on him at a most crucial junction in the aforementioned meeting with his fellow like-minded individuals, munitions and weapons designers.
"Be back in a moment men," he says as he stands and storms, darting out of the rowdy filled room, like a bull in a delicate crystal and china shop, bent over, squeezing his groin in a vice-like grip, "be back in a second."
He clutches his khaki pants-covered groin, trying to hold back the intense urge to piss all over himself. He had too many beers, attempting to relax with the ever-increasing mounting stress, prior to this crucial meeting. Just a few more steps, he tells himself, just a few more steps, as he bolts like a Wildman through the closed door of the washroom. The door bounces off the wall, wood against wood, making a distinct whooshing noise, before ricocheting back and then, closing, with him inside the cramped lavatory.
He gropes and fishes his hand into his pants, looking for his cock. His hand snakes to the left, then to the right in his pants. The wiriness of his dark furry pubes buries his phallus deep within its dark home inside his underwear but he perseveres and out pops, his flaccid dick as the yellow hot steamy piss hurriedly erupts, violently, from deep within his bladder.
"Ahh," he sighs, overcome with intense exhilaration as he goes from overflowing full to zero-empty in his bladder.
The yellow liquid bounces to the back of the bowl, as the hot steamy liquid meets the cool clear life-sustaining liquid, turning the clear transparent water of the bowl to a soft pale sunshiny luminous color as the two become one in the swirling mixture.
He shakes the last few drops of dew-piss from his flaccid member as his right hand props him up, away from the back wall of the washroom, while his left hand holds up his family jewel as he begins to snake his hand, along his flaccidity.
As he stands there, lifting himself from his stance, he lets his hand stray and travel back to the length of his fleshy-tool, back to the base that takes root in his groin. It begins to grow, manifest itself in its lengthy-thick abundance, from what it once was, to what it can be. His limp 4-inches strengthen and grow to a massively thick 10-inch projectile of virility.
He lets his frustrations intensify, as the main vein, pops up on the topside of his cock. He lets his right hand, his index finger, travelling the length of this blood-filled vessel that shines bright as it fills the winding vein with the life-sustaining essence, against the warm red-hot flesh of his swelled cock. The nerve endings electrify him, sending a sexual charge throughout his body as he manipulates the blood that courses through him to fill his cock in his left hand.
As he does this, an idea sparks within his brain perhaps fueled by his manual stimulations. He looks to his groin, to what pulsates there; he looks again at the throbbing erection unfurled between his legs and contemplates the problem that has cropped up in the munitions factory meeting room. His hand travels up, then down the length of his cock, smearing the pearly drop of cum across his mushroom-like cockhead, which is manifesting from deep within his balls.
This is the answer, he has been searching for and it was right betwixt his legs, the whole time. He strokes himself, further, growing more, although nearly strained to capacity as the hue of his engorged cock seeps into bulbous purple servitude.
He fills the strength that dwells between his thighs as it envelopes him, as his cock peeks out from the fly of his white cotton briefs and out through the fly of his brown khaki slacks, too, wisps of wiry pubes fight for exposure too, as he commences with his heated forced stroking.
The design for what he has been seeking, for what they have all been seeking, will be a giant metal phallus, a cock-sprocket, a cocket. Why has he never thought of this revelation before?
He pounds on his stiff tool harder, working himself up into a furious sweaty musky scented lather in the stifling heat of the cramped and very small bathroom. He can feel the perspiration settle in the eaves of his back as he works over his cock like a crazed maniac, making a visible sweat stain on his shirt, down the spine of his back.
Enthusiasm wells up within him at the realization that the shape of the much sought after 'propulsion device' design that has escaped him and others for day's dangles amply between each man's legs. Undeterred, he tears out of the bathroom like a Tasmanian devil at the light bulb moment that shone upon him in his brain.
In the front of the meeting room, he stands, with his pulsating cock, throbbing like a fleshy-like dagger before him, from his open parted fly. While his juices continue to seep slowly from his piss-slit onto the scuffed-up wooden floor, while the roomful of men, glare at him from around the large oblong wooden table, staring at his fleshy projectile between his spread legs.
"I've got it. I've got it, "he yells out as his cock whips side to side in unheeded excitement, spraying drops of pre-cum juice onto the front of his khaki's and onto the worn floor.
"We can see that, Burns," the man at the head of the table speaks while his eyes lock onto his throbbing erect appendage, "we can also see your cock, excuse me, your penis, sir."
"Oh, shit," Burns, says, alarmed, as he feels the ecstasy-honed sensation shoots through his body as his cock violently erupts its pent-up pleasures deep from within his tensed balls.
The cum from his ball sac coats the front of khaki pants, down his right leg, making an impressive wet dollop of silky white sperm onto the rough worn floor.
He breathes heavily, as his load empties from his precious balls while the men in the room mouths drop, open, agape, from the spectacular show he just gave them.
"So what is the idea, young man, what is your idea?" the headman asks as his slick damp tongue travels across his parched lips as his own cock jumps to life in his creased starched slacks from the display from of the propulsion scientist, unflinching from the display just done in his presence.
"We can model the propulsion device after a man's hard, throbbing fully erect cock, uhh, excuse me, penis!" he exclaims between heavy labored sighs.
As his excitement builds and fuels the occupants of the room, passing from one man to the next, as the idea takes root in their minds, he continues, "the head of the propulsion device can be like my own, like your own, cock, cockhead, and house the warhead and gyro systems."
"What shall we call this soaring and roaring atmospheric propulsion device?" the headman asks as he stands from his seated position, his chair rolling back on its four rickety wheels, a noticeable bulge in the front of his pleated starch pressed pants.
"The cocket! The cocket! It shall be called, THE COCKET!" Burns pipes in his answer with an overjoyed enthusiastic response.
"No! No!" the man standing at the head of the table interrupts, "that would be too crass, to in-your-face."
The man at the head of the table grimaces once he finishes his sentences and realizes what he has said. He licks his lips, again, at the implication of his statement. He manages to adjust his own masculinity as Burns' cock is still on prominent display where he stands in the front of the room, still dripping its essence onto the floor. He cannot avert his eyes from the hair-circled member that boldly projects from Mr. Burns slacks. He is drawn to it, like a magnet.
A murmur echoes among the men, as each contemplates what has arisen from Burns and in each of their respective pants.
"The phall..issile..., the phallissile," another man speaks up, interjecting his own creative approach to naming this weapon of mass destruction.
"What?" the man at the head of the table says flabbergasted, as he looks toward the person with a look of astonishment at latest name suggestion, "...that...that...that sounds damn ridiculous, Mr. Wainwright. No. No. It will not be called, what did ya say, a phallissile. What the hell are you thinking of, sir?"
"How 'bout..." a lone sheepish voice speaks up from one of the chairs that line the row of windows overlooking the factory floor, those unworthy to seat at the main table.
The room falls silent as the men in the room sit on the bated edge of their seats for the next idea to be verbalized, vocalized for the men to ponder over, the naming of their new propulsion device.
"...a roccc...ket, a rocket, a rocket," the familiar voice speaks again, yet unknown, as his lowly status among the other men in the room, makes his idea known.
The sheepish man fondles his own cock as he looks toward Mr. Burns at the front of the room, feeling his own loins stir from the openly displayed cock as he imagines engulfing it in his mouth. His Adam's apple gulps at that realization of his inner inhibitions and the intense longing he has for Mr. Burns cock.
There is silence, again, then a slight stirring among the crowd of seated men.
The room erupts in joyous glee and sustained laughter as the idea materializes in each of their minds.
At the same time, still standing with his stiff cock poking out of his still open dual fly of his unzipped pants and underwear, his erection, once again, stirs to its hardened abundance. It rises to its full 10-inch throbbing adorned stature as each man, underneath the tables, fondles their own concealed appendages in their slacks, out of sight of the others seated about the room.
The man at the forefront of the table licks his lips again as a wet spot steadily materializes on the front of his trousers. The outline of his erect penis is illuminated inside his pants, showing what hides inside them. His hand finds it home, resting on the fly of his pants, adjusting his swelled erection, as his magnificence and his brain responds to the cock poking out of the pants of Mr. Burns, who shows no signs of putting his gracious equipment back into them. The man's proud stance and idea formed because of his manhood, fueling his arrogant attitude and ongoing display.
The sheepish rocket-naming man sits on the sidelines of the room, unashamedly dry stroking his cock through the outside of his pants, wanting to happily unleash his third-eyed monster, like Mr. Burns, but tactfully declines as his feels his own semen built-up deep within the rolling globes of his concealed manhood. His manhood in unabashed glory, and graciously prominent, catches the attention of the man seated next to him, who is also busy, mimicking the same manual manipulations as the soft-spoken man and Mr. Burns.