Forced to Masturbate in the Office

This piece was prompted by a comment I saw by Erozzeta on the forums. It's an attempt to describe, in detail, how a man thinks and feels as he is forced to masturbate in front of a female friend.

Plenty of visuals though. No stinting on that.

If you like, you can imagine the dialogue in a British accent.

Thanks -

GuiltyCowboy

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I'd known Nathalie since our first year at university. Whenever I described her to anyone, I'd say she was a cross between Sophia Loren and Ingrid Bergman. It was a pretty accurate description, if you can imagine that. She spoke like Ingrid Bergman and looked like Sophia Loren. She also - let's cut to the chase - had the breasts of Sophia Loren. And that's what I was essentially communicating when I said she was a mix of those two women. There was a reason I didn't just say 'yeah, you know the one: big tits, foreign accent.' And that's because Nathalie was a friend, a good friend in fact.

I had a proper affection for her. We had studied French and Spanish together. I noticed her because she had flawless olive skin, like Sophia Loren in fact, and was slim, with slender upper arms. You couldn't really not notice her. But then I saw she took a genuine delight in laughing. And I liked that especially. And she had a strong European sensibility - an ineffable chic, one might say. And she loved being teased about it. In short, she was lovely.

The funny thing, though, is that Nathalie was actually from Hertfordshire. Just outside South Mimms. A town most famous for being a so-called welcome break on the A1. 'Sixty-two minutes from Notting Hill', she used to say. I'm not sure the real Ingrid Bergman or Sophia Loren had ever been within 10 miles of the place. She'd been sent away to a boarding school near Lausanne as a teenager, though, and so all her friends were from places like Malta and Colombia and Indonesia. And that's why she spoke with a foreign accent. As for her breasts, who knows? There must be something about the tap water in South Mimms.

So, she was lovely. And she seemed a bit mysterious, though she really wasn't.

If Peter Sarstedt had written a song about her, he'd have had to swap the back streets of Naples for the golf courses of London's commuter belt, and the Aga Khan's racehorse for a Ginsters sausage roll. You get the picture.

So, Nathalie and I had been friends for several years. And she had had a boyfriend throughout the entire period. The one time she was single was during our year abroad, when she was in Paris and I was back in the UK. She'd broken up with her boyfriend and immediately met a French guy from the seventh arrondissement, heir to some of the most significant vineyards in Burgundy. And I'm really sorry to say this but: the guy was actually pretty decent. They were a sweet couple.

Thanks to that annoying ineffable European style, I had never seen Nathalie get drunk and flash her tits, or snog someone in the corner of a grotty nightclub, or lose a bet about kissing another girl for the viewing pleasure of a gurning man-child. Other girls did that, not Nathalie. She'd laugh about that stuff, throwing her head back in joy when she heard the stories, but she'd never do it herself.

Anyway, we were in our mid-twenties and trying to make a life for ourselves in London. Nathalie had managed to get a job in an advertising agency - the office was just north of Charlotte Street - and when she heard that a new job was opening up, she gave me the heads-up, plus all the details I'd need to stand out in the crowd. I got the job. That's because I look the part, and sound the part. It's amazing what you can get away with when you're 5'11", have a moderately deep voice, and know how often to use shampoo.

Now, I have absolutely no interest in advertising. I just needed to get my foot in the door somewhere, earn a little cash, put a line on the CV. And it would be super fun having a friend like Nathalie to hang out with at work. It was a bit like being at school, if I'm honest. Most of us were a bunch of mildly intelligent kids who liked a bit of mischief every now and then, and hanging out and chatting about nonsense over a Pret sandwich at lunch. And our boss was like an incredibly intimidating headmistress. She knew everything, was 15 steps ahead of anyone else, had seen it all before, knew your weaknesses, your greatest fears, controlled your life, she knew it, you knew it, and was hugely respected in the industry. She was in her mid-fifties, married, divorced, no kids. She basically operated on a level of power that most people didn't even know existed. She was terrifying. She ate smirking young men like me for breakfast; she probably sprinkled them on her cornflakes.

One Thursday afternoon, I was called into a small corner office by her. That was highly irregular. There was absolutely no reason for a private conversation with her. None that I could see. What had I done? What could possibly be said by someone like her to someone like me on a random Thursday afternoon? I had been trundling along just fine, keeping my nose clean. I didn't want to have a meeting with my boss in the small corner office. Nothing good would come of this: I was either in trouble or she was going to give me more work.

When I closed the door, Nathalie was sitting at the small table in the centre of the room. Our boss - actually, she has a name; it's Freya - Freya, our boss, was sort of leaning back against the windowsill, perched there like a bird of prey, an eagle with her arms crossed. I remember thinking, in that exact moment, whether a woman's arms cross above, on, or below their breasts when they cross their arms and whether the breasts sort of get in the way. I'm not actually very good at my job.

"Hi, hi," I said.

Nathalie smiled, Freya simply said "You'll want to close the door."

"Yup, sure." I closed it and then spun on the spot and stood there by the door. Why would I want to close it, I thought. A bit ominous. My feelings about that door were entirely ambivalent.

"This is a test," she went on in her matter-of-fact way. "Don't ask me to explain it because I won't. Is that clear? It's not for you to know."

Nathalie and I looked at each other. She gave me a look as if to say, 'I haven't got a clue'. I returned the look with a barely perceptible shrug.

"Is that clear? I asked you a question," Freya said, as if she was dealing with idiots she couldn't trust.

"Yes." "Yes." Both Nathalie and I quickly responded. Nathalie smiled discreetly, glanced at me again. Naughty schoolchildren in front of their headmistress.

"Right. This is what's going to happen. I won't beat about the bush. Nathalie, you're going to sit where you're sitting now and remove your shirt. And, Tom, you're going to stand on that side of the table and face Nathalie and masturbate until you ejaculate."

And then time sort of stopped still. Except it didn't because I was suddenly acutely aware of both the noise from the street and the sound of my own heart. My heart was incredibly fucking loud. It's a hot day, I thought, it's early July, and the sun is slanting in through the window and occupying its usual corner at this time of the afternoon. This is real. A police siren could be heard in the distance.

And then the penny dropped. Advertising execs are always pulling stunts like this. Oblique mind games, getting you to 'think outside the box', taking you 'out of your comfort zone'. Awful fucking phrases; I was subjected to them several times a week. It was always such pretentious bullshit. Like Ogilvy and his stupid matryoshka dolls - something every poor sod who entered the industry had to hear about at some stage. Though these things were normally pulled off with a little more flair, I have to say. More elan. Freya was losing her touch. Bloody hell I was relieved though.

And how dare she use us like this. What a twat.

"So this'll be for the Churchill Car Insurance account, I take it?" I said.

Levity is the way to go in situations like this. Facetiousness is a much-undervalued quality, I've always thought.

Problem is, it just bounces off a woman like Freya. Eagles don't do facetiousness.

I looked at Nathalie, but she wasn't looking at me. She'd swiveled her head to look at Freya. And later I would realise that it was at that very moment, as I saw the look in Nathalie's eye, that I knew that this was actually going to happen. I was going to have a wank, here in the office, in front of her, because even though Nathalie had the look of incredulity in her eye, she also had a look of fear. And that fear told me, right there and then, that Nathalie had already given in, even if she didn't know it yet. She actually believed in it as a possibility.

And that sobered me up somewhat. That and Freya's eagle eyes on me. She even kept her head still like an eagle. I felt like a rabbit she'd just spotted at 300 yards.

"Right. This is the test then?" I said. Less than sure of myself.

I wondered what Freya had said to Nathalie before I'd come into the room.

"I'm not masturbating. Sorry. Is that what you need to hear? That's my answer," I said with finality. Why was the tone in my voice so flimsy?

Nathalie remained silent. She was truly stunned.

"Do you think this is a negotiation?" said Freya as she zeroed in on me.

"Well, I think you're wanting to see how we react," I responded.

"I couldn't care less how you react, Tom. What I want - and I think I was pretty clear about this - is I want Nathalie to take her shirt off and sit there while you masturbate over her. Do you understand?"

"I'm not doing it either," said Nathalie.

"You will," was all Freya said, and she didn't even turn her eyes from me to address Nathalie.

"I won't," tried Nathalie again.

Freya ignored her.

"Take your penis out, Tom. The sooner you start, the sooner this will be over with."

I didn't move. Nathalie was still looking at Freya. I think she couldn't bear the idea of looking at me at that moment - of connecting with me with this thought in our heads.

It seemed so absurd, taking in the room now. The potted plant in the corner, the venetian blinds pulled up high, the boring white table in the middle of the room, just a normal office table like you'd find in any office anywhere. It was strewn with the coffee cups and notepads and bound reports and biros that were being used by another team just moments earlier - when Freya had come in and demanded use of the room. There was a white board on the wall, with green smudges in the corner. Someone had actually drawn a fucking box on it. I couldn't even tell you the colour of the carpet. Office colour? I wanted to laugh but there was no laughter in me.

And it was absurd too, looking at Nathalie. She was wearing a collared shirt with a blue and white stripe - a feminine take on the standard men's office shirt. She'd turned the collar up, rolled up the sleeves loosely. It wasn't so tight as to reveal the shape of her breasts but the cut was ample enough to communicate their significance. She was a competent woman who worked in an office. And she looked like one too. This was reality. All the signs were thre. She wouldn't have come to work today thinking she'd be put in such a scenario. I mean, who would?

This was getting awkward. Reality is like that.

And then Freya picked herself off the windowsill and bent down at Nathalie's ear and whispered something to her. She whispered for a short while, longer than you might expect. At first, Nathalie just looked dumbly ahead. Then, at last, when Freya had finished, Nathalie lowered her eyes and nodded her head.

I have no idea what she could possibly have said to Nathalie in that moment. But it had its effect. A profound effect.

And then Freya came over to me. She had never stood so close to me before. I could smell her perfume, I could see how she'd applied her make up that morning, I could see the individual strands of her glossy, dark brown hair; she raised herself onto her toes - an odd touch, I thought - and now whispered into my ear.

"You've always wanted to cum on her. This is your only chance. Take it."

Holy fucking shit.

I looked into the distance. It's all I could think to do. The sky was cloudless. And I thought it was strange to have had Freya's voice so close to my ear, to feel her warm breath. I tried to think when was the last time I'd felt a woman whisper into my ear like that. It had been ages. It felt so intimate.

When I looked back into the room, I saw that Nathalie had undone her top button. Freya put her hands on my shoulder and guided me forward a couple of steps. She positioned me at the edge of the table. Nathalie was sat directly opposite me. She was no more than four feet away.

I turned and looked at Freya, her hands still on my shoulder. Her face gave away nothing. I turned back to Nathalie. She had now undone three buttons. Jesus fucking christ, I thought.

"Look at him," I heard her instruct Nathalie. And Nathalie lifted her head and looked at my chest.

"Look him in the eye, you silly girl," said Freya. And Nathalie looked me in the eye.

And I looked Nathalie in the eye as she undid the last of her buttons. She sat there with her hands in her lap, her shirt front undone. I heard a scooter buzzing down in the street below.

Nathalie pursed her lips briefly and then straightened her head. She looked both demure and defiant as she lifted her hands and slowly slid her shirt off her shoulders. I held her eye. She held mine.

And now Nathalie lifted her chin ever so slightly higher. There.

"Good," said Freya. "I told you you would."

I just stood there for a moment. In silence. She really was very beautiful, I thought. That olive skin, that brunette hair, and she'd worn a rather deep red lipstick to the office that morning. I had no idea about these things but the effect of that lipstick was amazing. I didn't drop my eyes from her face. Her eyes were green-brown. I could see them clearly in the sunlight. It was agonising being forced to hold eye contact like this.

"Push your breasts out, Nathalie," Freya ordered. "Tom - look at her."

And for the first time, I looked away from her eyes and took her in. She was a truly extraordinary sight. Her bra was white, underwired, embroidered with lace. I could make out her nipples beneath the fabric. There was a paradoxical effect to her as she sat that like: her waist was slim, her shoulders and upper arms too, and the bra gave the impression of being a delicate thing - and yet her breasts had such a swell to them. They seemed both firm and floaty. It was the awesome majesty of a 24-year-old woman at her absolute prime.

Nathalie pushed her chest out. Not too much, just a little. Enough to indicate she'd followed the order.

"Would you like to jerk off on her?" Freya asked.

I expected the edges of the room to warp, like a dream sequence in a bad movie. But they didn't. Everything was still in focus; worse, it was all in ultra-high definition. I could see the detail in Nathalie's irises. Hazel, that's what they call green-brown.

Obviously, I didn't want to jerk off on her. I wanted to go back to my desk and pretend this had never happened. But, just as obviously, I did want to jerk off on her. She was asking me if I wanted to rearrange the world, to make it midnight at noon.

I just opened my mouth slightly, as if I had something definitive to say, and shook my head a little and prevaricated. What was I supposed to say to a question like that?

"Jesus," Freya said, "I'll just get someone else." And she turned sharply away towards the door.

"No!" I shouted - surprised by the loudness of my voice. Surprised by my insistence.

"So, I'll ask you again, Tom. Would you like to jerk off on Nathalie?"

Here's the thing though: I didn't really think like that. I'm a straight man; I'm vanilla. I fancy girls. I wank. I have girlfriends, sometimes, and we have sex - and sometimes I'm good at it. I watch porn. I'll turn my head at a beautiful girl in the street. I think hot girls are hot. I'll put it plainly: the idea of jerking off on a beautiful girl is incredibly appealing. It works for me. But let's be serious: of course I thought about Nathalie. But mostly I thought about her in an abstract way, like, yes, it would be awesome to go out with her, to be a couple. I'd really like that. That would be phenomenal. And I had thought often about how she looked so beautiful at certain moments. And that wasn't abstract: I specifically liked her neck, and her eyes, and the way she'd looked at my twenty-first birthday party, and I liked the way she was wearing that lipstick today too. So, yes, I fancied her. But it was complicated. Because she was a real person in my real life. And the feelings were real. I imagined situations in which I might make a pass at her - but I never had thoughts with specific sexual details. I didn't imagine her licking my balls or whatever. So, when Freya asked me if I wanted to jerk off on her, the truthful answer was that - actually - I had never imagined doing specifically that to Nathalie before.

And so what did I do? I made myself have the thought now. I looked at Nathalie as she sat there in that little office, in the afternoon light, with her shirt off, and I thought about exactly what I was looking at. There was Nathalie, she looked so indignant - she was flushed she was so indignant - her nipples visible, flaring her nostrils ever so subtly, gorgeous with her red lipstick, her hair up, pushing her breasts out towards me, offering them up. And now I imagined the specifics: I imagined my sperm on her mouth. My sperm, her mouth. And I imagined a large strand dangling from her cheek. Some on her forehead. And I imagined her having to just sit there as I masturbated furiously in front of her, until I groaned loudly and released my cum into the room, imagined it hitting her in the face, making a mess down her front.

And you know what: it was the absolute fucking sexiest thing I had ever, ever encountered.

I didn't know if I was passing the test or failing the test but I did know that Nathalie had taken her top off. That was a fact. She was playing her part. She would never normally do a thing like that. And I did know that Freya hadn't shown even the tiniest weakness. There wasn't a single chink in her armour.

"Yes, I want to jerk off on her," I heard myself saying aloud. Maybe Nathalie would think it was better for me to do this than some other random twat in the office.

"Right. There we are. Now, Nathalie, I want you to look at his cock and tell me if he has an erection," Freya said.

Nathalie immediately took her eyes off me and looked at my crotch. By then, the thought of my cum hitting her in the face had had some consequences.

And when I can feel myself getting hard, it makes me even harder. Especially if I'm in a place where I'm not supposed to be getting an erection.

"I can see a bulge," said Nathalie, "I can see his penis; it's on the left."

The fact that Nathalie was actually looking at my penis, talking about it, describing how it was getting harder and that she could see it, that was like pouring oil on the fire. I felt a surge in my trousers. Like there was no pretense now. Like I was allowed to be hard. My cock extended itself further and I could feel it bending out against the fabric.

"Nathalie, you're not paying attention. I said 'tell me if he has an erection.' Does Tom have an erection?" Freya said, ever the headmistress.

"Yes, he has an erection."

"His cock is stiff?"

"Yes."

"Yes what, Nathalie?"

"Yes, his cock is stiff."

"Ok, good. Now you're going to look Tom in the eye and say 'I can see your cock is stiff. Would you like to jerk off on me?'"

Nathalie lifted her gaze from my crotch and looked me in the eye again. She swallowed. She had blushed again. My cock was incredibly hard right now. It was insane how erotic I found it to have these two women - my boss and my friend - openly discussing the state of my erection.