Chapter 37: The Office Ruination
The week of mandated silence was a physical itch beneath his skin, a constant, low-grade fever. He pissed sitting down, the act a humiliating ritual he had to film each morning, angling his phone to capture the proof of his compliance. The frustration was a stone in his gut. Work became his only refuge, a realm of spreadsheets and strategy where his body was irrelevant. Or so he thought.
The board meeting was a quarterly formality. Fifteen men and women in tailored suits, the air smelling of stale coffee and ambition. Chris took his seat midway down the polished mahogany expanse, his back to the glass wall overlooking the city. He placed his tablet, his notebook, his phone. As he did, the screen lit up. A video call request.From Conzi.
His stomach plummeted. He hadn’t heard from her directly since the early days, when she’d first started watching. He hit ‘decline’. A second later, a text buzzed.
Conzi: Answer. Or I send the café video to every email address on your company’s website. Starting with your CEO.
The blood drained from his face. He stared at the names embossed on the leather folders around the table: Henderson, Rice, Vasquez. His boss, Mr. Henderson, was droning on about Q3 projections. With trembling fingers, Chris fumbled for his wireless earbuds, case popping open too loudly. A woman across the table glanced up. He gave a tight, professional smile, tapping his ear as if expecting an important call. He fit the buds in, their seal blocking the ambient room noise into a muted hum. He accepted the call.
Conzi’s face filled his screen. She was in what looked like a cozy living room, leaning back in an armchair, wearing a simple black tank top. Her short blonde hair was messy, her glasses slightly down her nose. She looked academic, casually beautiful. She smiled, a slow, knowing curl of her lips.
“There he is,” she said, her voice a clear, intimate thread in his ear, so at odds with Henderson’s droning baritone. “The office stud. How’s your week of chastity going, Chris? Sore?”
He kept his eyes on Henderson, nodding as if engrossed. “I can’t talk,” he whispered, his lips barely moving.
“You don’t have to talk. You just have to listen. And do.” She shifted, and the camera panned down slightly, giving him a view of her hand resting on her thigh. She was wearing soft-looking grey sweatpants. “See this? This is what you don’t get to touch. This is what you lost because you can’t control your pathetic urges.”
On screen, her hand slipped under the waistband of her sweatpants. He could see the gentle movement of her fingers beneath the fabric. “Mmm, that’s nice. I’m already wet. Thinking about you, actually. Thinking about that big, stupid cock of yours, trapped in your tidy little trousers while your boss talks about profit margins.”
Chris felt a treacherous stirring, a direct betrayal by his own body. He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs.
“Uncross them,” Conzi said, her voice sharp. “And put your phone in your lap. Camera on your dick. I want to watch it struggle.”
“Conzi, please. There are people—”
“Now, Christopher. Or the video goes out in thirty seconds. I have the draft email ready. All it needs is a recipient list.”
Her use of his full name was a drill to the core. He slowly uncrossed his legs. Using the cover of the large table, he lowered his phone into his lap, propping it against his thigh. He angled it downward. With his other hand, he unbuttoned his suit pants, pulled down the zipper. He reached in, freeing himself. The cool, recycled air of the conference room was a shock. On his phone screen, he saw the obscene image: his own erection, jutting up from his open fly, framed by dark suit wool and the gleaming mahogany table edge beyond.
“There it is,” Conzi sighed, as if admiring a mildly interesting specimen. “The prized possession. Looks so innocent just lying there, doesn’t it? But we know what a needy, messy bitch it is.” Her fingers moved more deliberately under her sweatpants.“Stroke it. Slowly. Don’t you dare stop listening to your boss.”
His hand closed around himself. The touch was electric after days of enforced denial. A bead of moisture instantly welled at the tip. He began a slow, agonizing rhythm, his hand moving in his lap, his eyes fixed on a graph about market saturation.
“Good,” Conzi breathed. He could hear the faint, wet sound of her fingers working her own flesh. “Now, look at the man talking. The one with the red tie. Your boss, right?”
Chris’s eyes flicked to Mr. Henderson.
“Imagine,” Conzi whispered, her voice taking on a husky, rhythmic quality matching her hidden motions, “if I was there.Under this table. I’d take your fat cock in my mouth while he talked about fiduciary responsibility. I’d suck you until you were dripping down my chin. And then I’d stop. I’d climb into his lap, right there at the head of the table. I’d hike up my skirt—I wouldn’t be wearing any panties—and I’d sink down on him. Ride him while you watched. Let him fuck his little secretary in front of his entire board.”
Chris’s hand stuttered. His breath hitched. The visual was violently intrusive, devastatingly arousing.
“You’d have to just sit there,” she continued, her pace quickening, her voice growing tighter. “With your dick in your hand, leaking like a broken faucet. You’d have to listen to me moan for him. Feel me cum for him. And you wouldn’t be allowed to finish. You’d have to sit there with your fucking blue balls aching while he emptied himself inside me. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” he choked out, the word a puff of air.
“Louder.”
“Yes,” he whispered, slightly louder.
“Good boy.” Her voice was pure liquid heat now. “Now I’m going to cum. And you’re going to watch me. And you’re going to keep stroking that beautiful, useless dick. But if you cum, Chris, I swear to god, I will personally call your HR department and describe this exact moment to them. Do you understand?”
He was on a razor’s edge. The stimulation, the terror, the filth of her words had him hurtling toward climax. He forced his mind away, focusing on the dry financial terms, the hum of the air conditioner, anything.
On screen, Conzi’s body went rigid. Her head fell back against the chair, her mouth opened in a silent, gasping ‘O’. Her hips bucked against her own hand once, twice. A soft, guttural cry escaped her, transmitted directly into his ear. She shuddered, then relaxed, a blissful, satiated smile on her face.
Chris was pumping himself furiously now, unable to stop, the pre-cum slicking his frantic strokes.
Conzi’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at the camera, at him, her expression shifting from post-orgasm languor to cool assessment. “Stop.”
He froze, his hand a vise around the base of his shaft, squeezing brutally to stave off the eruption. A pained groan leaked from him.
“I said stop.” Her voice was flat. “Take your hand off. Let me see it.”
Trembling, he removed his hand. His cock stood achingly hard, purpling at the tip, twitching in the air. A long string of clear fluid stretched from the slit to his thigh.
“It’s practically crying,” Conzi said with a clinical detachment. “Look at it beg. But it doesn’t get what it wants, does it? It’s just a tool for our amusement.” She leaned closer to her camera, her face filling his screen. “Now, I want you to leave it out. For the rest of the meeting. I want you to sit there, with your dick on display, and take notes. And if anyone sees… well, that’s your problem, isn’t it?”
“I can’t,” he begged, his voice a shredded whisper.
“You can. And you will. The camera stays on. If you move it, if you put it away, the café video goes live.” She smiled, a genuine, warm smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Enjoy the rest of your meeting, Chris.”
The call ended.
He was left in stark, silent horror. The phone screen was black, but the camera was still active, a silent witness pointed at his exposed groin. He couldn’t move it. He slowly, mechanically, pulled his notepad closer. He picked up his pen. His other hand stayed stiffly at his side.
For twenty-three eternal minutes, he took notes on corporate expansion strategies with his penis lying bare on his thigh. Every shift in his seat was a peril. Every time someone glanced his way, his heart stopped. A droplet of pre-cum finally fell, landing with a silent, dark splash on the polished mahogany between his notepad and his tablet. He watched it bead on the wood, a permanent, damning seal of his ruin.
When the meeting finally adjourned, he waited until everyone had filed out. He shoved himself back into his pants with fumbling, numb fingers, zipped up, and wiped the table with his sleeve. The spot was faint, but it was there.
As he gathered his things, his phone buzzed with a new text. It was a screenshot from the video call, a crystal-clear image of his erect cock, the conference table, and the blurred edge of Mr. Henderson’s chair in the background.
Conzi: For my personal collection. One more week of no touch starts now. For the table stain. I’ll be in touch.
He walked out of the glass-walled room, his professional stature a hollow shell. The ghost of his own arousal clung to him like a sickness, and the red eye of the security camera in the ceiling corner seemed to follow him all the way down the hall, blinking in time with the frantic, trapped beating of his heart.