The Business Luncheon

As the Monday staff luncheon moved into its second excruciating hour, James excused himself from the table and walked the short distance to the restroom. At Julianna's, located in a shabbily genteel old home, the facilities were of the compact, one-at-a-time variety, consisting of a toilet, a urinal and a small mirror over a pedestal sink.

James blithely faced the urinal, planted his feet, unzipped his Dockers and fished out his miniscule manhood, holding it by the loose skin bunched beneath the head. Because he possessed a grower, not a shower, he was pleased to have privacy, and grateful not to be concerned with critical, if surreptitious, evaluations from his better-hung co-workers.

He aimed and released, breathing a sign of relief as his swollen bladder emptied its contents and splattered on the white porcelain. Then the door rattled and began to open behind him. "Shit," he muttered. "I forgot to lock up." Luckily, he thought, he wasn't sitting on the damn toilet with his pants around his ankles. That, he was certain, was a sight nobody wanted to see. "It's occupied," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll be right out." But despite his warning, Louisa stepped in, quickly closing the door behind her and turning the lock.

"Is there room in here for two?" she asked, smiling as she stepped toward the mirror and began to girlishly primp, dabbing on some makeup she had retrieved from her purse and pulling her long hair back into a ponytail. Louisa was a research assistant at the magazine. She stood about five feet tall and was clearly proud of her perky, smallish breasts, which she enjoyed displaying beneath a collection of tight-fitting blouses. She rarely wore a bra, and James noticed that her nipples had stiffened prominently.

"Excuse me," James said, baffled and a more than a bit excited. "I don't think you ought to..."

"I've always wanted to be able to pee standing up," Louisa stated, moving away from the mirror and standing behind him. "It must be so nice to be able to just whip it out and get it over with. We girls have to go through such an ordeal, especially when we're wearing panty hose."

"Well, I..."

James fumbled for words as the last of the yellow stream abated. But before he could tuck himself safely back inside, Louisa reached her arms around his waist and placed her small hands along each side of his gaping zipper.

"So how do you do it? Do you hold it with both hands? Just one hand? Is that how you aim it?"

"Louisa, we'd better..." But before James could finish his sentence, Louisa's right hand had found his flaccid member. She gripped the spongy shaft lightly with a thumb and forefinger, and giggled.

"Wow, that's really small, but it's cute," she said, jiggling it gently while considering its heft and its dimensions. "What is it, about two inches? My boyfriend is a lot bigger, but he's black."

Two and five eighths inches, to be exact. James had, of course, measured. But he didn't think it was prudent to quibble over a fraction of an inch as she gripped his waist harder, and pulled herself closer to him, pressing her breasts between his shoulder blades. She then placed her fingers just beneath the flared head and pulled at his timid organ, which had begun to swell and grow beneath her touch. "Ooooh, it's getting bigger," she said. "That's more like it. It's still not as big as Darnell's, but at least I've got something I can work with."

Within seconds, James was rigid, mustering up enough length to accommodate her slowly undulating fist. With her left hand, Louisa pulled his testicles free and gently cupped and caressed them as her right hand began to pump faster, his natural lubrication allowing her to glide friction-free along the thick but stubby shaft and over the bulbous head.

James tried to protest, but the words seemed to stick in his throat as he quickly reached the point of no return. After perhaps ten rapid-fire strokes, the explosion came, blasting the porcelain and compelling him to grip a pipe affixed to the top of the urinal to keep his balance.

From behind him, Louisa couldn't see that he had climaxed - but the tensing of his muscles and the sudden, ragged pattern of his breath told her all she needed to know. She slowed her stroke, slid her hand to the base of the shaft and pulled back toward the plumb-like helmet, squeezing tightly along its length as if trying to coax the last dollop from a depleted tube of toothpaste. As a result, yet another sticky emission dribbled from the tip and dropped into the swirling water at the bottom of the urinal.

Releasing his deflating manhood, Louisa reached alongside the urinal and pulled several sheets of toilet tissue from the wall dispenser. "Here," she said. "Clean yourself up. And hurry up. My chicken sandwich is getting cold out there."