Faxing Off

























 Art by Michael Kirwan

 Story by David Laurents 

— originally published in Torso Magazine - March, 1996 issue —


I forgot all about Jack Springer until I got an entry­level job at one of those glossy entertainment and fashion magazines.

I'd exchanged numbers with Springer at a bar, and only when I got home and went to write him up in my Little Black Book did I notice he'd given me a fax number. At the time I was waiting tables at a chic French restaurant uptown, so I didn't have access to a fax machine, but I kept the number any­ way. I keep very good records of the men I meet. If only the IRS would audit my Little Black Book instead of my taxes!

On second thought, it's better they don't. I've got a fair chunk of undeclared income in there, and I do mean "in cum." I had some heavy-duty student loans to pay off, and it's just so hard to dig yourself out of debt, even with a decent job, especially if you like to have a life while you're doing it. That's my other problem-!have expensive tastes.

I wanted to live while I could still enjoy it and wanted to travel while I was still young. So a few years ago, I went on a "working vacation". I not only brought$$$ in, I usually didn't have to pay for my room for the night, and I got laid. A lot. Worked out well all around.

Anyway, when my new boss at the magazine showed me the fax machine on my first day and was explaining where the extra reams of paper were kept and who to call for help if it jammed, I was in another world. The fax reminded me of Jack. His distinguished profile had leapt into my mind, and I could hardly wait until I got back to my desk, where I could check my Little Black Book.

A few weeks after I'd met Jack at Baxter's, the Sunday paper had featured an interview with him.

I remember how my estimation of him soared a couple of notches when I saw the profile in the papers. I mean, he was practically famous! He'd told me he was a writer, but he turned out to be a published author. After that, I had meant to pick up one of his books when I was in a bookstore, but I just kept forgetting ...

I couldn't forget his face, though. When I saw the inter­ view I had recognized his photo right away, and that was the image that came to mind as I was standing beside the fax machine. He wasn't all that handsome, really, at least, not drop-dead. But he was distinguished, with an air of culture about him, which is what had attracted my attention to him in the bar.

As soon as I could, I sat down at my new desk and checked my notes on "Springer, Jack." I had written "nice basket" in the same color pen as the fax number, along with "writer" and "Baxter's." Everything else I knew about him came from the interview.

He was a writer, novels mostly, and worked out of his home. That was why he didn't have a phone; too much of a distraction. People calling when he was trying to work. The temptation to call someone up and chat for an hour, or worse, to make plans to do something during his working time was too strong for him. With the fax, he didn't need to read messages as they came in. He could let them pile up until he had finished a chapter and was ready for a break. In this age of high technology he could still take care of most of his business by fax instead of phone: his editor, many of his friends-even the Chinese food place down the block. He could fax an order over, and 15 minutes later they'd deliver it to his door.

I smiled, pleased that I still could remember so much about him from my notes and the interview I'd read. I wondered if he remembered me as well. I resolved to at last get one of his books when I went to lunch and read it that night, so I'd have an excuse to fax him the next day. I was excited about connecting with him again, even though there had never seemed to be much chance of our ever sleeping together. Part of it, I think, was having someone to fax to; the novelty of that appealed to me. I hoped he hadn't changed his fax number in the six months since I'd met him.

I moved my Little Black Book's little red ribbon to his page and put it away before someone noticed I wasn't working.

I didn't get much work done, though. My desk was out in the hallway in front of my boss' office, and also across from one of the executives' doors. He'd had his door closed all morning, but just when I settled down to dive into the work my boss had given me, he opened it, and there went my ability to keep my mind on my work. He was gorgeous! The kind of blond who tanned with a healthy-looking pink glow exuding from every pore of his body-and I imagined quite a lot of them, undressing him in my head as I watched him sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone. He noticed me looking in his direction and flashed me a million-dollar smile full of blindingly white teeth My cock was hard as a flagpole and straining against the crotch of my pants. I wondered if anyone would notice if I unzipped my pants to give my cock some breathing room, but decided against it. I mean, hell, it was my first day.

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't think about the work I'd been given, couldn't think about anything but the guy in the office across from me. I looked away from him, staring at my computer screen, but instead of the terminal all I saw was that smile, his chiseled chest and abs, his cock, hard and waiting for me, his muscled legs up in the air, his pink asshole winking at me, inviting. I wondered if the corporate men's room was busy right then, if I could take five minutes and go jerk off before I creamed in my pants. I had to do something to get him out of my mind or I would be fired in a few hours, for not getting any work done.

I stared across the hallway, trying to read his name off his door, and wished that my boss had introduced me to everyone in the office. No, perhaps it was better that she hadn't, I thought, since I probably would have embarrassed myself somehow upon meeting him. But I had no idea what to call him, and I convinced myself that once I knew his name, I could be done thinking about him and get down to work. I was so turned on by him, I was sitting there fantasizing about his name! I was almost ashamed of myself; it wasn't like I hadn't gotten my rocks off in a few weeks or something. But this guy really turned my head, and my cock, and I couldn't think about anything else.

Since I had no way of learning his name discreetly, I figured if maybe I could talk to someone about him, I would get him out of my system, and could then get back to work. But I couldn't very well call someone up and say all the things I wanted to do to this guy; what if my boss came by to ask what was taking me so long on the letters I was supposed to type?

And what if he overheard me himself? I didn't, of course, have any friends yet in the office, and frankly, I doubted anyone else in that corporate setting was even queer, someone who I could stand with at the water cooler and whisper my fantasies. I looked at my Little Black Book, wondering who I would call if my boss was at lunch and the coast was clear, who I might call in order to have some quick and sweaty sex during my lunch break so I wasn't as distracted during the afternoon, and suddenly I realized what I could do. I could write my fantasies about The Exec (which is how I thought of him since I didn't know his name) and fax them to Jack Springer. I didn't know if he'd remember me, and I had no real excuse for writing to him out of the blue, but it was only

10:37, and there was no way I would last all morning without telling someone about The Exec and clearing my head.

I opened a new file on the word processor and began to write:

Dear Jack-

You probably don't remember me. We met at Baxter's bar a few months ago. It was the Friday before the paper ran that profile of you. I really enjoyed reading more about you; it made me want to rush out and read all your books.

I'm writing you now because I just got a new job, where I've got access to a fax machine. Well, I'm really writing you now because I've got nowhere else to turn. See, there's this executive in the office across from my desk, and he's gorgeous. I can't think about anything else but vaulting over my desk and tearing his clothes off, hungrily running my hands across his well-built, tanned body. He looks like one of those stereotypical California surfers, only hotter, and you know he's got a brain, to boot, because he's a top exec at the magazine I now work for! But he's got this body to die for, a body to kill for, a body I can't stop thinking about!

He's got large hands and I keep watching them, curled around the thick ear-piece. I can't hear what he's saying, but I imagine those big hands fisting his thick cock.

I've never been so turned on by someone before, just from looking at them. I mean, I can get turned on by a lot of things, and even by men who you wouldn't ordinarily think of as attractive, but something in the way they carry them­ selves, or their mannerisms, can do it for me. I don't know what it is about him that hits me so strong, though. It's as if he exudes this masculine sexuality in his every movement. He's probably straight, but that doesn't stop me from fantasizing! It almost makes it even better. I can imagine him fucking me like I was a woman, plowing into me in a work­ man-like fashion with his huge cock, his large nipples staring down at me from his chiseled torso.

And the idea of fucking him up the ass, that virgin straight ass, makes me so hard I feel I'm about to burst a new fly in these pants, and there goes my best work suit.

It's driving me crazy!

Hope you don't mind my having written to you like this. I had to tell somebody and my boss would've heard me if I called someone. You were the only person I knew with a fax who might understand. But don't write back to me, or I'll get in trouble. Fired my first day at the job for "faxing off' on the company machine!

Thanks for being a friendly ear. Will try and contact you again when I can be faxed back.

Gotta run.


I printed it out and read it over again. Not wonderful prose-and Jack was a writer, so he'd care about things like that-but it would have to do. I started to get up to bring it over to the fax machine and send it to Jack, when I realized my erection was still poking up against the thin fabric of my slacks. I wondered if I should sit until it went away, but then I looked up and saw The Exec standing behind the desk in his office, pacing as he talked on the phone, and I knew my erection wasn't going anywhere. My mind just couldn't seem to imagine this guy in clothes and kept erasing them. I stood and walked to the fax machine, casually holding a folder in front of me, feeling like I was back in high school hiding an erection behind my school books. I felt sure that everyone could tell what I was doing, and stuck one hand into my pocket to hide the bulge. I grabbed hold of my cock, ran my fingers along its throbbing, swollen length, and wished I could just go into The Exec's office, lock the door behind me and fuck until quitting time.

I was all nervous as I punched Jack's fax number into the machine. Mostly it was from The Exec, of course, but there was this strange tech­ no-thrill from illicitly using the fax machine like this. Jack's number was busy, and I wanted to swear at the machine as I waited for it to redial and connect. The longer I stood there, looking guilty and trying to hide my erection, the easier it would be for me to get caught. I tried to look nonchalant, as if I was just faxing something mundane for my boss, and care­ fully looked everywhere but at the fax machine.

Suddenly, I heard my name called out, and I looked up, startled and guilty. How could my boss have known? She stood at the door of her office, beckoning me. I glanced at the fax machine, planning to grab my letter to Jack and hide it in my folders to send later, but just then the machine connected, and the sheet of paper began its slow route through the insides of the fax machine. There was no way I could pull it out now, not without tearing it, and I couldn't leave my boss waiting there without her asking what I was doing. Nervous as hell that someone would get to the machine and read my slutty letter before I returned, I walked down the hallway, trying to put on a calm and collected air, as if the world was just peachy keen instead of hanging on the blade of a knife at my throat.

My boss wanted to show me some new trick on the computer. She made me sit down at my desk and stood over my shoulder, giving me directions. I wanted to rush back to the machine, certain that my fax had at last gone through and was just sitting there, waiting for someone to discover it. But I couldn't do anything. I had to sit there, with her leaning over me. I had to forcibly keep my eyes on the screen lest I instinctively look at The Exec, but still my eyes saw him-his bare chest, his naked body lying before me, so inviting, the slight curve I imagined his cock held. I wondered if my boss had noticed my erection poking up in my lap, and if she did if she thought it was because of her. I tried to lean slightly forward and hide it. And all I could do was smile and nod and "a-hmm" at her directions. She left me to finish the file on my own, going back into her office but leaving the door open in case I needed more help. I was supposed to finish it right then, and to bring it to her when I was done. I raced through it, trying to make the most of my 65 wpm typing skills I'd picked up typing other kids' papers for money in college.

Suddenly, The Exec was standing in front of me! I couldn't help getting an eyeful of his large basket, which was at my eye level, just past the piece of paper he was holding out to me. I tore my eyes away from his crotch and looked up at his face. God, he was beautiful!

"I think this is yours," he said, and I almost died right there. Of all people to find the transmission I'd left in the fax machine, it had to be The Exec? I knew he'd read it, how could he not? What must he think of me? I was going to get canned, I felt certain.

"Come into my office."

This was it, I thought as I followed behind him. I'd lasted under three hours at my new job... I couldn't help staring at his ass as I trailed after him, though, and imagining working that tight bubblebutt...

The door shut firmly. He stood facing the window, motion- less, except for the whir of his fingers drumming against the sill. I waited for him to tum around and fire me, his indignation, his rage. He turned to face me and I closed my eyes, bracing against the shock. I was a wimp. I just couldn't stand there and take it like a man, not knowing what he must think about me after reading that fax. I felt like a prisoner about to be executed, who asks for the blindfold so he doesn't have to see the gunmen shooting him down.

He didn't say anything. I waited.

I opened my eyes again, confused and curious. He stood before me like an imposing blond monolith , silent and immovable. His face was placid and calm, his arms folded across his chest. My eyes continued downwards. His fly was unzipped, his cock jutting boldly in my direction, swollen and pink. My breath caught in my throat.

I sank to my knees before him, inwardly giving thanks to every deity I could remember. From this vantage point I got a chance to examine his thick cock in every detail, from the tiny little piss-hole on the tip of his fat glans to the blond hairs that curled around its base, still lost in the fabric of his pants. I'd been right about the slight curve, but wrong in which direction it went. The vein that ran along the top throbbed impatiently, and I leaned forward to take him into my mouth. I flicked my tongue around the swollen crown, stretching my lips further and further as I took more of him into my mouth. I paused, working up saliva to smooth the way. Slowly, my lips slid closer and closer to his crotch, where the fly of his pants loomed like a dark cave.

"That's right," he said in his California accent, "Suck me, dude."

I reached up and pulled his nuts from his pants, massaging their hefty weight in my palm as I gulped his cock.

My jaws ached. He moved me so I was on my knees, backed up against his desk, then he grabbed my head and started pumping into my mouth, fucking my face in short quick thrusts. I started to gag as his cock pushed into the back of my throat, but I fought the urge to choke and settled back on my knees, bracing myself until I was able to accommodate him.

Now that my hands were free, I unzipped my own pants and reached past my damp briefs to free my own aching cock. I slicked the head with my own pre-cum, and began whacking off in sync with his thrusting into my face. I'd been so worked up all morning that it wasn't long before my nuts let loose, and I was shooting thick ropes of cum between his legs onto the dark carpet. He didn't stop fucking my face, pumping his huge piece of meat into my mouth with the same even thrusting as before. My jaws had gone beyond aching and were numb as he battered the back of my throat.

Suddenly he pulled out. A thread of spittle strung between my mouth and the tip of his cock.

"Suck on my nuts," he commanded, as his thick fingers curled about his meat and he began to fist himself as I'd imagined earlier. I eagerly dove into the dark, musky region between his legs and began sucking on his big balls, which were pulling up into his crotch as he got ready to cum. I slobbered from one to the other, getting them both wet, then trying to engulf both of them at once.

Suddenly, both of his balls popped out of my mouth at once and above me he roared. I sent my tongue flicking across the underside of his balls as he bucked forward above me, shooting cum all over his desk. When he'd stilled, I stood up and zipped myself up. He still hadn't real­ly said anything to me. But as I waited, he merely pulled slowly on his still-swollen cock, lost in a pleasant, post­coital haze.

Puddles of cum pooled on the blotter of his desk, a sure sign I wasn't about to be fired. Relieved and satisfied, I headed for the door, ready to get back to work before my boss got upset.

"Where do you think you're going?"

I looked back, surprised, then smiled. The Exec — still didn't know his name! — had taken off his shirt to reveal a torso even more exquisitely sculpted than I'd imagined. A small silver ring glinted in his left nipple. With one hand, he twisted his right nipple while his other hand drifted across his washboard stomach with its trail of downy blond hairs pointing towards his crotch.

I turned away from the door, thinking I'd have to write another fax to Jack Springer, thanking him for being there to listen to my fantasies and telling him the incredible things that had happened as a result.

When next I sat at my desk, I found that someone had left me a report from the fax machine. It read: "transmission: successful."


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