(Un)confined

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I work from a brand-new office close to my client’s main building. It’s small and completely open-plan, with pods and pockets of desks at various heights, and a pair of L-shaped sofas in one corner.

I tend to park myself at a bank of high desks, next to one of the video screens that line the walls. From my stool, I can see the whole room, and because most people prefer a regular workstation – complete with monitor, plug sockets, and a swivel chair – I’m often alone up there.

Which is no bad thing. I like my own space, both in life generally and while I’m trying to work. It also means that for most of the day no-one can see my screen, leaving me free to flick regularly from Excel and PowerPoint to Twitter, WhatsApp, WordPress, and…other interesting sites.

That freedom is particularly useful when I’m horny. Not only does it make covert daytime sexting much easier, as I can do it all on my laptop, it facilitates and encourages that arousal by giving me relatively uninterrupted access to all sorts of inspiring material on social media and elsewhere.

However, in other important respects, my choice of desk is much less conducive to rampant daytime horn – as I discovered yesterday, while pondering all kinds of delicious thoughts during a bit of a pre-lunch lull. In tight suit trousers, a low chair can be very practical. Its wider seat allows one to slouch down a bit, and to sling one’s legs out in front, creating a bigger, flatter crotch area. Try it: the less bent you are at the waist and knees, the more jeans or trousers can stretch across your upper thighs and pelvic area, creating precious pockets of space for anything you may need to tuck or nudge subtly to one side…

In contrast, a high stool forces you to sit up straight, and to dangle your legs down, squashing everything together a bit. For the most part, that’s absolutely fine – it’s obviously a comfortable position overall, otherwise I wouldn’t choose to work that way. When I’m turned on though? Not fine. Not fine at all. It’s a bit like wearing a slightly more flexible cock cage; as I get aroused, the tightly-cut fabric will bulge out around my slowly stiffening dick…but only up to a point. Once there’s no more room in which to expand, that nascent erection is pushed back on itself, curling round till it rests awkwardly at that liminal point between soft and fully hard.

With the lack of space preventing full extension, pressure continues to build. It’s not a comfortable feeling, but it’s not an unpleasant one either. For that reason, when it happened yesterday I deliberately didn’t shift position to try and accommodate everything suddenly going on between my legs – to my cost. Each time I squeezed down on my pelvic floor, my cock pulsed and twitched as the dorsal vein grew fat with blood; the head gradually curved till it rubbed against the rough cotton through my boxers; and as I looked out over the busy office, I realised that the chances of holding even a nominally coherent conversation with one of my colleagues were getting slimmer by the second.

Unlike my dick.

The sensible option would’ve been to remain in my seat till everything calmed down. However, as plenty of us can attest, that level of arousal doesn’t lend itself to rational decision-making. I needed to touch myself; more than that, I needed to feel cool air against my hot skin, even if only for a minute or two.

I hopped down from my stool and slipped out of the room, careful to avoid giving anyone a direct view of my bulging crotch. Thankfully it’s only a short walk to the men’s loos, and when I pushed open the door, all five cubicles were empty. I locked myself in the middle stall, wincing as I half-turned and felt the fabric crease again around my aching hard-on.

Before reaching for the zip, I paused and flicked open my phone camera. It occurred to me that when you apply firm, direct pressure to something for that long – and then release it – the kinetic effects can be quite spectacular. Even on such a minor scale, pinning down my erection in that way meant that it was bound to spring free the minute I allowed it to do so.

I dug a finger between the top of the zip and the waistband of my trousers, and hooked it under my boxers. In one movement, I pulled the two down and away from my body together…

Fully liberated – no longer squeezed and squashed into a tiny nook between two soft folds – my cock suddenly felt huge. And really sensitive. I thumbed over the head and lightly pumped my fist along its full length. Stopped. Slicked saliva onto my palm and pumped again.

After a minute or two, I cupped my hand over my nose and mouth, and inhaled deeply. It smelled of cock. Of pent-up desire and unfettered possibility. Of everything I might do next.