Casual Friday Part 1
There was no formal office dress code at TopSports, but when the boss was a classy clotheshorse like Mr Sartorius, people maintained a certain standard. So even on Fridays, chinos and polo shirts were as casual as it got.
Except when the boss was away. Then it was a thing of beauty, with athletic gear, backwards baseball caps, tanks and muscle shirts. Casual Friday didn’t do it justice. I called it Frat Boy Friday.
I was so eager I got there an hour earlier than usual and brought three changes of underwear. The early arrival was also because I had a report to file to Mr Sartorius so he could read it on the plane. I got in the lobby at 7:30 AM and when the elevator arrived it was empty.
“Hold the door!”
I just managed to catch the button in time to re-open the doors for Chiang who strutted in with his road bike over his shoulder, his veiny bicep flexed into a softball.
“Fucking A, Jeffy, just annihilated my ride. Thirty miles in fucking 58 minutes. Can you believe it?.”
I could believe it. And when the elevator doors closed I could smell it. Chiang’s bike togs were soaked through with pungent sweat and clung like a second skin to his jacked torso and monstrous legs.
“Look at this sick pump, lil dude. Fuck!” Chiang dropped his bike, helmet and knapsack to the floor and started flexing his quads.
The hour long cycle sprint from the ex-urbs had atomized all his body fat and his thighs exploded with shrink-wrapped grainy meat. His knee caps disappeared from view under jutting teardrops and his quad sweep bulged wider than his shoulders.
“Chiang—“ I trembled, clutching my tote bag. It was too much. My brain couldn’t even register if I was massively turned on, disgusted, or terrified. My painfully rigid prick said the former, but that might have been because in the humid enclosed space I was huffing his testosterone-saturated man-stink like poppers.
“Naw, wait, you can’t see everything, Jeffy.”
He hiked the bike shorts up to his crotch, compressing the sweat-wicking fabric into a hammock for his fat cock, which released cascading streams of wetness into each muscle’s crevices.
“You better catch that, Jeffy, a slippery floor in an elevator is a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Chiang smirked.
I dropped to the floor and licked around the muscle above his left knee like I was catching the drippings of a melting ice cream cone. Then I dove at his right ankle and tongued upwards over his shin then back around over his beastly calf muscle. I nearly gagged as I rasped my tongue over a squiggly earthworm of a vein.
I sat back on my haunches and stared up at his surreal physique, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. I was dozy with lust and slurred my words:
“You gonna… take a shower… at the gym?”
Chiang reached over to tap the button for the floor of the health center, a few floors below our own. But then he paused.
“Wait, the boss is away today, right?”
I nodded below him, dumbly mouth breathing.
“Then fuck the shower.”
He crossed his arms in front of him and peeled his sopping wet shirt up and off his inhumanly ripped upper body. His pecs settled into inches-thick concrete slabs and his abs, obliques and serratus meshed together like armadillo scales.
“The beta bros in this fucking office can smell a real alpha for a change.”
My eyes bulged out of my sockets and I started to hyperventilate.
“Oh God!” I moaned as Chiang held the dripping shirt over my head and winked.
“I think you’re the one who needs a shower, Jeffy.”
He twisted the shirt and the sweat rained down on my face in sheets. I came so hard I briefly passed out. When I woke Chiang tossed me out on the health center floor with one hand while toweling himself off with the other
“Clean yourself up, dude. This is a fucking office y’know,” he laughed, punching the door close button.
I shook my head.
Frat Boy Friday. Should’ve brought more underwear.
Part 2
My attempt at getting an early start to my day had been completely torpedoed by Chiang. I bought a day pass to the health center only to realize in the locker room that I had no clean clothes to change into after a shower, just a couple of changes of underwear. My wool suit jacket was drenched, basically wrecked. I could take it to the dry cleaners to salvage but who was I kidding? I was going to seal it in a Ziploc and jack off to Chiang’s man-stench for months.
By the time I descended to the street, waited for the Target to open, bought some clothes, showered at the gym, and then made it to the office, it was 9:45. Frat Boy Friday was in full swing. Literally. It was a supreme effort to make it to my cubicle without succumbing to the parade of commando cock in gray gym shorts. When I saw Banner at the end of the hall I ran in the other direction. I just knew it was as huge as was rumored and I could not process seeing that at the moment.
I sat in my chair and booted up my desktop. I just needed 15 minutes to finalize the report and get it off to Mr Sartorius’ executive assistant Brian, the only other gay in the office, who was traveling with him to Amsterdam.
I saw an email from him: “We’re boarding, New Meat, where’s that report?”
Shit.
I began typing furiously. But mere minutes later I was bodily picked up and tucked under the arm of Tommy the Intern like I was a package due for FedEx. He was the size of a house but the biggest thing about him was the chip on his shoulder.
“Tommy! Put me down, you big oaf! I have work to do!”
“So do I, dude. I’m the office gofer, right? So this morning, instead of the usual: ‘Tommy, gofer coffee” or “Tommy, gofer bagels” it was “Tommy, gofer Jeffy.”
We here headed across the floor in the direction of the Lab, where most of the programmers worked. I tried to wriggle out of his grip but he was far too strong.
“That’s Mr Miller to you,” I huffed. “Take me back to my desk this instant!”
“Sorry Mr Miller,” he whined, his voice dripping with Gen Z sarcasm. “I’m just a dumb intern, I can only do one thing at a time.”
“I do not have time for this, Tommy!”
I tried to pry his thumb back where his hand was crushing my pelvis into his side, but I was too weak to do even that.
“Ugh, you ox! What the hell does your mother feed you?”
We came to the lab door. “Wimps like you for breakfast,” he said, opening the door and tossing me inside.
I immediately turned as the door slammed behind me and yanked on it to no avail. It would not be locked from the inside so I knew Tommy was holding the knob.
“I’ll get you for this, Tommy!” I fumed through the door.
“Who are you, again?” He cackled back.
I turned to face the hoots and hollers of the Laboratory Boys. Picture the nerdiest, smelliest, food-stained, pimple-prone stereotype of computer programmers. Now picture the complete opposite. Eight jock studs who looked like a football team instead of a coding team. The laboratory was separate from the rest of the office not because of any sensitive instruments they used. It was because they made so much goddamn noise with their roughhousing. It was Cameron the team lead’s idea to test out early updates and revisions of our sports betting app, not with professional sports, but with wagering on their own jockboy antics.
I spotted him using his phone to video the latest challenge, a gutpunch contest between Brody and Stu.
“Jeffy!” his face lit up when he saw me. “Just the dude we were looking for.”
“Cam, I—”
“Who you got in this fight, Jeffy? My money’s on Stu.”
Both men turned to me and lifted their shirts. Stu’s flexed abs were lean and hard, framed by impressive obliques and serratus: his pride and joy as a former fitness model. I saw on the monitor that he was the favorite. Brody’s abs were more solid than ripped, but I knew he was ex Marine Corps.
“I got Brody. Twenty bucks,” I said. Was I the only one in the room who had seen his OnlyFans? Probably.
“Smart boy.” Brody winked at me, his big USMC tatted bicep popping as he rubbed his stomach. “You got a lucky kiss for the underdog?”
Oh shit, did I ever. I scrambled over on my knees and planted a big smooch on his lower abs. Like, really lower. My cock shot rock hard smelling his musk and the other boys whooped as they noticed.
“Looks like Jeffy’s got a stiffy!”
I awkwardly got back to my feet, breathing heavy. Goddamn that was hot. I licked my lips to taste the salty sweetness of Brody’s sweat.
“Now Stu,” Cam joked. “Don’t hit him that low or it’ll be a foul.” The Lab Boys roared with jockboy laughter.
Stu let fly his fist with a huge karate shout like something out of a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. It was a huge contrast to the dull impotent thud his hand made when it landed flat on Brody’s abs.
“Bro, I wasn’t ready. Isn’t someone supposed to say go?”
“Dude,” Stu gulped. “That was you not ready?”
Brody smiled a devious grin and fully flexed for the first time. Eight big, rounded, thick abs emerged from his gut like magic. It was like a time lapse version of Grandma’s dinner rolls baking in the oven.
“Now give ‘em a try.”
Stu looked relieved when Cam said “One punch at a time, bros. Your turn, Brody.”
Stu psyched himself up by flexing a hard most-muscular pose that popped every lean muscle in his torso. “C’mon, bro,” he taunted. “You can’t touch this!”
On Cam’s “go” Brody’s big muscled arm swung a giant uppercut that detonated like dynamite on Stu’s belly button. Stu was knocked back a foot into the arms of the bros behind him. “That all you got?” he burbled at Brody unconvincingly.
Brody winked at me, while blowing imaginary smoke off his knuckles. “Wait for it.”
“Aw fuck,” Stu gasped as he fell to his knees. “Pail!”
Cam’s phone panned away from Stu blowing chunks into the round file and towards me. “Well that’s enough of the prelims. On to the main event!” He handed the phone to Pete from Marketing, then put his massive arm around me. Cam had a Master’s from MIT and a physique like Arnold Schwarzeneggar in his prime. He’d won so many bodybuilding trophies, we used them around the office for paperweights.
“Cam what are you doing?”
But he had already started talking to the camera: “Here at TopSports, we’re celebrating Pride Month with a special treat for our Employee of the Month, Jeffrey Miller. Ain’t he cute?” Cameron tousled my hair like I was a little boy, which to be fair I totally resembled standing next to him.
“Now Jeffy, here, has a hard-on for jock muscle. And at TopSports, we got a hard-on for betting, so we figured, why not combine the two?”
“Cam, wait, is… is this live?”
“So place your bets now! How long will Jeffy hold out? Which of our eight jock contestants will be the first to make him pop? How many times will he blow a load in his shorts? Log into our app for the moneyline, spread and parlays! Special teaser bets available if you stream your own reaction video on our feed!”
Pete panned away to the line-up of muscle as the Laboratory Boys stripped off their ringer tees and tanks and started warming up.
“CAM! What the hell is this?”
‘This is all for you, little dude! Don’t worry about the video, Marketing always thinks their shit will go viral but that never happens right?”
“Right…” I said, “what are the chances?”
Any second thoughts I had evaporated when Cam shucked off his Sigma Chi sweatshirt and massive boulders of pecs, delts and biceps flexed as he balled it up and tossed it at me. “Save the best for last!” he said lasciviously as he walked to the end of the lineup.
An hour later I collapsed into my cubicle desk chair like damp Kleenex, completely spent. My underwear and pants were completely soaked through with cum, which now dripped through the fabric onto the thin office carpet. When the volume of spunk had diminished after the fourth cum, Cam had called a long half-time break to give my balls a chance to regenerate supply, pouring Gatorade down my throat, massaging my shoulders, and giving me tough-love coaching like I was a battered boxer losing a fight.
“Don’t pussy out now bro!” “Just a few more rounds.” “You got more in you.”
I did in fact have more in me. Four more in fact. Every single one of the Lab Boys extracted their due, whether easily or not. I reviewed the carnage on my app:
Davey did pull-ups while I hung from the front of his rippled abs, gripping his swole Apollo’s Belt like handrails. I managed to hold off somehow, even with his gray shorts riding dangerously low. But when he switched to hanging leg raises I came at the top of the first rep as my lips brushed his outie belly button. 121 seconds.
Tyler did push-ups with me lying prone on his impossibly lean back. It was appealing if not comfortable, like having sex with a hot guy on a mattress made of cobblestone. I lasted until I could longer resist the temptation to fondle his pecs and I came hard as they bulged into meaty domes. 118 seconds
Ryan picked me up and started curling my 160 pounds like a barbell. I don’t think my core could have kept my body straight very long but it hardly mattered. 20 seconds.
Jason was determined to make me cum with a pec dance routine. He was handsome and had very big round pecs with a nicely trimmed layer of dark fur. This had worked on me instantly with Mitch, but Jason’s intensity with his furrowed brow and his reddening, progressively frustrated face, contrasted with the cheesy move so much that I kept getting the giggles. After five minutes he angrily stuffed my face in his hairy sweaty armpit and I convulsed like I was electrocuted. 301 seconds.
Stu had recovered enough after the spunk-break to go next. I don’t know if it was fair to give the point to him, though, since as he dragged my tongue over his rippling abdominals I was doing okay until I hit the purple welt left by Brody’s fist. Then it was game over. 30 seconds.
Brody saw it, Stu knew it. The glance that passed between them busted through my refractory period and then Brody sealed the deal with a torso twisting back double biceps pose. I gasped “Arf!” at his Marine bulldog tatt as I spewed. 5 seconds.
Chad was the office’s resident short king. Though six inches shorter than my 5’9”, he was broad and thick, with a barrel chest and massive thighs. He simply bearhugged me around my stomach, then shrugged me higher until my damp crotch smooshed wetly in the cleft of his impressive pecs. I looked down at his cute round face. So handsome, so earnest. “Cum for me Jeffy.” He said simply. I complied. 29 seconds.
Cam was last. He ripped off tear-away pants to reveal his tiny posing strap over a big round bulge. He simply moved through his bodybuilding posing routine. His proportions, conditioning and size were achingly beautiful and I had tears in my eyes as I watched him weakly from the floor. “Cam…” I tried to apologize, exhausted, “you’re amazing, but I think I’m done.”
“The hell you are,” he said. Then his body exploded in an epic most-muscular that bypassed my tired brain in a short circuit from my eyes to my cock. BOOM. 60 seconds.
I closed the app, and with my last joule of energy completed my report, attached it and pressed send. I knew it would probably be too late given the wonky status of Wi-fi on transatlantic flights. I shrugged. If I got fired, what a way to go. Then I called an Uber and took the rest of the day off.
That evening, I got a text from Brian. “He wasn’t happy about the delay, but he liked your work. You get a pass, Teacher’s Pet.”
I texted back. “Thanks, ‘bro’.”
“OMG stop it. *barf emoji*” Then: “Anything else to follow up?”
I paused, should I say anything about the laboratory shenannigans? No. But…
“Just one thing…”
“Yeah, New Meat?” Brian replied.
“Fire that fucking intern.”
Cont.
