This could be a problem.
I work in one of these small start-up companies that pride themselves on how "modern" their open-concept offices are, and yet our boss is as douchey and our rules are as strict as any of the big companies—and I'm one cog in that douchey, strict apparatus. As part of the IT staff, it's my job to police my coworkers, checking up on their search histories and web browsing to make sure there's nothing fishy—like what I'm seeing now: a bunch of visits to a certain website that offers content only to "fans," as it were.
Whoever it was, they at least knew enough to use their phone, not one of our computer terminals—but they either trusted too much in their security or they forgot they'd connected to our Wi-Fi. Not good, to say the least. And to make matters worse, whoever it was has been signing into an account: as a star, not just a fan.
Obviously, the boss will want to know who's responsible, and there's just one way to do that. I take a quick look around—we work side-by-side at long tables rather than in cubicles, but there's just a window behind me so nobody's likely to see my screen—and I click the link. The room seems to sway as my blood suddenly starts pounding.
The information on his profile's limited and he's cropped out his head in the preview photos, but there's no doubt who it is. After all, few guys in the world have a body like that, let alone in this little office. He dominates every room he enters, no matter how professionally he's dressed, because suits aren't made for muscles like that. With his massive shoulders and thighs, the fabric's strained everywhere; his biceps stretch out the sleeves of his jacket and when he spreads his arms, the shirt strains across his chest, the buttons barely holding on as windows of tanned flesh show between them.
I've found myself staring when he stretches and yawns. Actually, I've found myself drinking in the sight of him whenever he's around. He's only been working here two weeks and I'm obsessed, though I haven't worked up the courage to say anything besides simple greetings to him. All I know is he's named Dan; I don't even know his last name, so I can't check if he competes as a pro.
Suddenly I remember where I am and what's on my screen. I quickly shut the browser and try to calm down for a few minutes. My heartrate's faster than it's ever been and—I'm just realizing now—my dick's sore with the strength of an embarrassing erection.
What should I do? I'm perfectly willing to delete all traces of his activity, but he might just do the same thing again tomorrow. Our (straight male) boss sometimes checks the records too, and I doubt he'll be so willing to overlook this. As things stand, there's a good chance Dan's going to get us both in trouble.
But how do you tell a guy like that to stop checking his porno site in the office? The thought makes me sweat and shake, and yet strangely also makes my boner harder than ever. How am I supposed to talk about this with him? We don't know each other. He's got no reason to trust me. And besides, there's no privacy in this stupid "open-concept" workplace; it's not like I've got an office I can call him into.
I fret over this for another hour, till I catch him striding through the office out of the corner of my eye. It's a hot summer day and he's wearing a white dress shirt tucked into black pants, both struggling to cover his massive frame. I can't help but notice where he's headed—of course! The bathroom.
It's the only place we can't be overheard. But do I really have to do this already? What if I go in there and he's still pissing with his dick hanging out? What if someone else comes in?
I watch the door for a couple of minutes, with no sign of anyone else entering or exiting. I delay, doubt, and then somehow my legs move on their own, taking me to the bathroom door, my stomach quivering and my knees weak.
He's washing up at the sink and I hesitate in the doorway, unsure how to approach this and drawing way too much attention to myself. Ultimately, there's nothing else to do but come right out with it. I tell him the situation as quickly as I can while he stares at me, no readable reaction on his face—his incredibly handsome, rugged face, with his square jaw and hulking neck covered with a short black beard. He's around thirty, like myself, and he breaks into a crooked grin when I'm finally done with my speech.
He says, "So what makes you think it's me?"
I'm caught off-guard. "I mean, you're the only bodybuilder in the office, for one thing..."
"But anyone could be hacking into our Wi-Fi."
"Well..." My mind races and I remember one useful detail. "Th-the guy's got a tattoo on his back, between his shoulder-blades. It looks like a shuriken—a throwing star."
"So now you want to check my back?" His voice rumbles with an edge of anger; I can feel it in my gut. "Since when are strip-searches office policy? And who are you anyways? Just the IT guy."
This is going worse than I could've imagined. I'm drowning in sweat. "You don't have to. I didn't say that! Just—just be careful, is all I'm saying."
"Careful, huh? Well, I don't like being accused of something." He makes his mind up. "Come on," yanking open the door of the last stall. "Get inside. Before someone comes."
"W-what?"
"Get in. You wanted proof? You'll get it. Hurry up." And he disappears inside.
For a moment I hesitate, my heart hammering louder than ever, but there's nothing else for it. I wipe the sweat off my palms and follow him.
With his massive chest and broad shoulders and my skinny frame crammed in there too, it's a tight fit. I manage to get the door shut and when I turn around, he's just inches away from me, filling the space, the tight shirt strained over his pecs and just lightly dampened with sweat. His body heat's already warming the air, his breath touching my lips.
