Sexual Harassment 

  in the Workplace  

































 Art by Michael Kirwan  

 Story by Leo Cardini 

originally published in Freshmen Magazine - March, 1996 issue


I look down. My pants have become completely unpleated in an attempt to accommodate my cock's unmistakable ascension toward full erection.




"Sexual harassment in the workplace I'm so sick and tired of hearing about it," I complain in the crowded cafeteria to my new friend, Ricky, who has the good fortune to be the private secretary to that hunky heartthrob Mr. Slater. "Maybe I'm just here for the summer, and maybe I'm just a lowly mail clerk, but aren't I entitled to even just a little bit of fondling, flirting, and lewd propositioning? I mean, look at me. I've got a good body ...."


OK, so maybe I am just five foot ten, but I'm quite well-proportioned--broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight ass--thanks to a passion for athletics (and locker rooms) throughout high school.


"I'm not bad-looking ...."


OK, so maybe I border on too cute, especially when I smile, but even at eighteen I'm smart enough to realize the advantages of blond hair, blue eyes, and a suggestive grin. Besides, some guys like cute.


"I've got a big dick ...."


Eight inches, honest! And cut, with a big, fat cock head that drips pre-come like it's going out of style.


"And, God knows," I continue, stretching out my arms and pumping up my chest, "I'm certainly available for all the sexual harassment any guy here's willing to give me!"


I'm expecting Ricky to laugh and tell me to lower my voice, as I really do say these sorts of things too loudly for public places. But all he does is look nervously over my shoulder. I turn around and look up.


Oh, shit! There's Mr. Slater waiting for room to pass, all six foot two of him towering above me, standing so close that I could bury my head beneath his double-breasted suit jacket, unzip his fly, and ....


"Ricky," he says, nodding toward his fortunate secretary. "And Darryl, I believe?"


"Yes, sir. Good afternoon," I say, feeling like a real jerk.


He dazzles us with a smile to die for, mobilizing the square-jawed features of his clean-shaven face, then moves on, leaving me to put up with Ricky razzing me about the beet-red blush that has come over my face. But life goes on, and back in the mail room fifteen minutes later I've forgotten all about it. Until about five, that is, when my boss, Mr. Gatch, calls me over and hands me some mail.


"This stuff goes to Mr. Slater. He just called for it. And don't bother coming back; you can head home from there."


So up I go to Mr. Slater's office, wondering why Mr. Gatch had such a wicked smile on his face. Anyhow, when I get there Ricky's not at his desk, so I step over to Mr. Slater's open door and poke my head in. There he is, sitting at his desk, as picture-perfect as something out of a men's fashion magazine, his jacket draped across the back of his chair, red suspenders emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the masculine contours of his well-defined chest.


"Uh, excuse me, Mr. Slater?" He looks up at me. "I was going to drop this stuff off with Ricky, but--"


"He had to leave early today. Come on in. And shut the door behind you. Actually, you'd better lock it, since Ricky's not here."


Although I don't quite understand the logic of the request, I follow his orders and step up to his desk, standing opposite him. "You can set the mail down there," he orders, indicating a corner of his desk. "Thank you."


"Will there be anything else, sir?"


"Yes, there will be," he says, leaning back in his chair with spread-apart legs and pausing before he continues. "I understand you're having some trouble at work."




"With sexual harassment."


"Oh, you mean what I said in the cafeteria today?"


He nods. Suddenly I feel like a real jerk again.


"Oh. Well, I was just joking that I'm not getting any. That's all it was--a joke."


"I see."


As I stand there his eyes move down to my crotch. I swear I can feel his gaze penetrating the navy blue slacks f m wearing, causing a stirring inside my boxer shorts. He lets his eyes rest there, which I find so disconcerting (it would be just like my show-off dick to embarrass me with a hard-on!) that I hear myself blurt, "Besides, I don't think I'd know sexual harassment if it ... well, slapped me in the face!"


He gives a slight acknowledging chuckle and looks up into my eyes again. "Well, Darryl, sexual harassment is a somewhat subjective term. I guess you could say it's in the eye of the beholder." And with that his eyes dig into my crotch again, where I pray the pleats in my pants will hide the changes I can feel beginning to take place beneath.


He looks up into my eyes again. "For instance, has anyone here said anything suggestive to you?"


"No, sir."


His gaze descends once more to my crotch, where a sweet surge toward erection lifts the underside of my cock head into a resting position in the front opening of my shorts.


Eye to eye again, he asks, "Or--how shall I say it?--brushed up against you?"


"No, sir."


And as his eyes return to my pants, I feel my thickening cock shaft burrowing its way out of my shorts. This time his gaze lingers longer than ever, and my face flushes with embarrassment as what feels like yards of elongating dick snake their way out of my boxers.


His eyes finally return to mine again. "Or stared at you in a way that might suggest a salacious curiosity?"


As he lowers his eyes this time, I can feel a fresh infusion of blood that feels like a tidal wave forcing my now-rigid cock shaft upward and outward. "Sir," I say, my voice about to crack, "I don't even know what salacious means!"


Eye to eye again, he says, "Staring at you the way I've been doing."


I figure now it's my turn to play with him. I've earned it. "Well, I hadn't noticed anything unusual about it, sir."


"Then why does it look like you're getting a hard-on?"


I look down. My pants have become completely unpleated in an attempt to accommodate my cock's unmistakable ascension toward full erection.


"Well, now that you mention it, I thought I did notice that happening. I just didn't want to be impolite."


"That's very considerate of you," he says, rocking himself back and forth in his chair, his oversize hands dangling off the armrests. "But politeness apart, if something like this should happen to you while you were at work, would you consider it sexual harassment?"


"No, sir. Actually, I'd consider it a compliment."


"I see. And would you consider it sexual harassment if I remark that you're either wearing boxer shorts or no underwear at all, since briefs would be at least partially effective in containing that thing?"


"No, sir. I would consider it an astute observation that does you credit."


"Ah, well, would you consider it sexual harassment if I come right out and ask you what you are wearing underneath your slacks?"


"No, sir. I would consider it a reasonable inquiry. And my answer would be boxer shorts. Black silk boxer shorts, a graduation present from a very close friend."


"I see," he responds, clearly intrigued by this revelation.


Now, all this time he's sitting there with his legs spread apart, and I'm standing on the other side of his desk with my hands respectfully clasped behind me. But the situation's so feverish that I now raise my right hand to rub the sweat from my forehead.


"Yes, it is warm in here," he says. "You may loosen your tie and unbutton your shirt if you like. That is, if you wouldn't misinterpret this easing of the dress code to suggest ulterior motives."


"No, sir. Simple consideration for a fellow man is all it is," I say as I decide not simply to loosen my tie but to remove it entirely, folding it neatly and setting it down on top of his mail, then unbuttoning the top three buttons of my shirt.


"Anyhow," he continues, "about those alleged black silk boxer shorts you're wearing: I wouldn't be where I am today if I believed everything everyone told me."


"You want me to prove that's what I'm wearing?"


"If you wouldn't mind. That is, if you wouldn't misconstrue it as--"


"Not at all, sir."


I bend over and remove my shoes. Thinking What the hell, I take off my socks too. Then I undo my belt and unzip my pants, bending over once again to slip off my slacks. Standing there with my pants in my hand, my upward-curving dick sticking out through the double curtains of black boxer shorts and white dress shirt, I watch him as he stares me in the crotch again with clear appreciation.


"See?" I say, lifting up one shirttail to reveal my boxers and the pale flesh of my dick.


"Yes. Very impressive." I don't know if he's commenting on my boxer shorts or my dick, but my cock decides to claim the compliment with a not-so-subtle twitch, thickening and stiffening as it leaps upward.


"You can set your pants down over there if you like," he says to me, indicating a plush chair to his right. As I step over to it, he slowly swivels his own chair around, following my every move, my bouncing, aching hard-on so sensitive, it's like the very air in the room is stroking it.


As I face away from him to drape my slacks over the back of the chair, I give in to the urge to give my dick one long stroke. Oh, shit, does that feel good! I notice the ooze of pre-come glistening in its downward course as it trickles along the underside of my dick. That'll surprise him, I think to myself as I turn around to face him again.


But I'm the one in for a surprise. During the few seconds I've had my back to him, he's managed to pull out his own dick. With his legs spread apart and his zipper wide open, his outrageously huge cock rises magnificently upward in full erection. It must be a good ten inches and hard as a rock, with ropelike blue veins zigzagging all over the thick, light brown shaft.


He beckons me forward with "C'mere," and I feel myself irresistibly drawn toward him, my eyes glued to his big, beautiful member. When I'm right in front of him, he leans forward and undoes the final buttons on my shirt. "Then would you consider this sexual harassment?" he asks.


"No, but you're getting warm, sir," I reply as he gently pushes the shirt off my shoulders so that it slides down onto floor behind me.


"Well, what about this?" he says, pulling my boxers down to my ankles, expertly maneuvering my stiff, leaky dick out of the opening in front.


"Very, very warm," I say, kicking my shorts off as my now-liberated dick proudly shoots up in front of his face.


"Pick 'em up," he orders. And when I bend over to do so, he pushes me down onto my knees. I make no effort to resist but instead take the opportunity to look up at that huge, impressive dick ofhis. "What about that?" he demands, leering.


"Oh," I practically groan, "you're so very, very close ..."


There, on my knees between his legs, captivated by the irresistible charm of his fat, perfectly formed mushroom of a dick head, words begin to fail me.


"Well, I'm glad to see you're not one of these people who interpret every little word and action as an attempt at sexual harassment. But I'm sure even you will have to agree"--he places his hands on the back of my head--"that this"--he pushes me down on him, filling my mouth with that awesome, rock-hard monster of his--"is sexual harassment!"


But I can't respond, because he keeps me down on his dick. I become aware of just how rugged and fat it is, as unyielding as granite, stretching mouth and jaw to new extremes. And although I can't see the base of it in the shadowy recesses of his pants, the four or five inches ofit that fill my mouth are more than plenty, thank you.


I run my tongue along the warm underside of his shaft until he loosens his grip on me just enough so I can make my way to that special spot every man has just below his piss slit, that tiny patch of skin where every little flick of the tongue elicits an appreciative groan from above. When he finally pulls me off his dick, I say, "Oh, yes, sir, you're absolutely right! This could be construed as sexual harassment."


"Could?" "Well, as they say: You can't rape the willing." With that he pushes me down on his cock again. But--and I hate to admit this--it's just too big for me. Try as I might, there's simply no way I can maneuver all of it into my mouth. I do my damnedest to relax my throat and gagging reflexes (and I'm usually pretty good at this), but the fucker just won't fit. And there he is, his powerful hands trying to push me down on it. I fight against his grasp and finally manage to pull off, saying, "Sir, your cock is just too big for me."


"Oh, I'm sure you could manage it. If you really tried, you could get all of it down your throat. And I'll tell you, nothing turns me on more than the sight of some hot little stud like yourself down on his knees deep-throating my dick until I can't even see his lips for my pubic hair."


"Sir, as irresistible as that image is, I just don't think it's possible."


"Well, we'll just see about that." He rises from his seat and stands there above me, legs spread wide, hands on hips. As our eyes meet I read his silent request loud and clear. I reach up and unfasten his suspenders. He obligingly pulls them off and sets them on his desk. Then I undo the button and catch that secure his pants, letting them drop to his ankles. I look down at them and run my hands up his muscular, hairy legs, marveling at the graceful masculine contours of his well-developed calves and thighs. Then I tackle his white boxer shorts, which prove to be a bit of a problem since I not only have to lower them but also have to work his huge, uncooperative dick out of the front opening. It's difficult work, but every second is its own reward.


When I've finally got his shorts down to his ankles, I look up at him. Is there any more breathtaking view of a man than from below, between his legs, as he stands there above you, as mighty and formidable as a Colossus of Rhodes, acknowledging your well-deserved admiration? As I look up at him, his dick appears even bigger than before. It gives a tantalizing twitch upward, surprisingly buoyant for its size.


While I'm admiring him and massaging my own dick (it's dripping so much pre-come, I worry that I'm staining the carpet), he's busy unbuttoning his shirt. The loose cotton fabric flutters around him and then slides back, revealing the chest I always dreamed was there--broad and perfectly proportioned, with a spread of hair that rises up from his lush pubic bush in a narrow line, widening around the well of his navel before trekking up across his washboard abs and finally fanning out across his powerful pees. He leans forward to take my head in his hands again, directing my mouth toward his cock. I struggle to pull away, but it's mostly for show, and I'm surprised when he releases me.


"Sir, I really don't think I can manage all of your dick in my mouth."


He grabs his dick and holds it in front of my face, his smug look silently accusing me of oral incompetence. "But wouldn't you like to try? It's clear to me that you're the kind of kid who likes to suck cock. I'll bet you're really good at it, with a technique men twice your age would envy."


"Sir, sweet talk is just as much a form of sexual harassment as physical intimidation is."


"Only if I tried to talk you into doing something you really didn't want to do, which I don't think is the case. I've seen the way you've looked at me around the office. I'll bet you've always wondered just exactly what I had stuffed away in my pants."


I nod yes.


"Probably jacked off thinking about it?"


I nod again.


"Maybe even taken a break from the mail room, saying you needed to take a piss, just so you could go into one of the bathroom stalls and jerk off thinking about it?"


What is he, a fucking mind reader?


To emphasize his words, he gives his dick a shake. It's such a big, beautiful piece of meat that my fingers, as if of their own accord, rise to my chest to play with my nipples.


"Well, now you know exactly what it looks like. And judging by the way you're staring at it, it's to your liking." I nod again, tugging on my tits. Shit, it's very much to my liking.


He moves my mouth onto his dick again. I willingly cooperate. When he's got a comfortable five or so inches of it in my mouth, he stops, allowing me to get comfortable with that much of him. Then he pushes me forward again. More of his remarkable dick slides into my mouth until it presses against my throat and he stops again.


"Just relax," he says in a reassuring, honey-sweet voice. "And stroke your own dick. For some reason that always seems to make it easier on guys who try to deep-throat me."


Of course I obey him. Never has my dick felt better in my hand, the gallop toward orgasm exploding up and down my cock shaft like firecrackers, while deep below, inside my balls, that thicker undertow of pleasure makes its way across my ball sac and inches toward my butt hole.


Then he pushes me forward again. I relax my gagging muscles and manage to get a little more of him down my throat. Still, there comes a point where I've reached my limit. I gag. He releases his grip and allows me to dismount him.


"I'm afraid I really can't take all of it in, sir. Please don't make me try to deep-throat you again. Please." By way of entreaty I lick his hairless, baseball-size nut sack. Carefully I manipulate one ball into my mouth and savor its dimensions with my inquisitive tongue. Then I move on to the other. Who'd have thought that a day beginning with sorting through tons of mail would lead to finding myself naked on my knees with a mouthful of ball sack?


I look up at him, lost in the heady sensation of nuts filling my mouth while I stroke my dick. His eyes meet mine, and the thought of being observed in this act makes me work on his balls and my cock all the more enthusiastically.


I let his nuts slip out of my mouth, and I make so bold as to rise to my feet. I cup his spit-moistened balls with one hand while I grab his dick with the other. My fingers can hardly fit around it. "Just take a look at yourself," I say, directing his attention by a squeeze of his dick. "I mean, have you ever really met anyone who's been able to take all of that in his mouth?"


"Truth to tell--no, I haven't."


"I didn't think so." I divert his attention by giving in to the urge to stick out my tongue and tease the erect nub of his left nipple. With a quick intake of air, he pumps up his chest, forcing his nipples into greater prominence. The manly beauty of his chest washes over me, and my hand that was holding his balls now moves up to tweak his other tit.


"Though I have met many guys who could take it up the ass," he whispers in my ear as his hands slide down to my buns. "Would you like that?" he coaxes, his fingers making their way closer and closer to my hole.


"I'd like that very much. But please promise to go slowly."


"I understand your concern, and you have nothing to worry about. You can trust in me completely. Now, just bend over my desk."


I do, and to my surprise he gets down on his haunches behind me, pulling my ass cheeks apart and flicking his tongue across the rim of my butt hole. I gasp. Encouraged, he tongu e-teases another "Oh!" out me, then another and another, before taking me by surprise by plunging his tongue as far up my ass as it will go.


"Oh, God!" I balance myself on one elbow and reach for my crotch, stroking my throbbing dick while he continues rimming me, sending me into an almost unbearable ecstasy.


And just as I'm thinking I couldn't hope for any greater pleasure, he suddenly pulls out his tongue and spins me around so I'm leaning against the edge of his desk. He quickly goes down on my dick, deep-throating all eight inches of me in no time flat, working his tight lips up and down my shaft with powerful strokes that overwhelm me like nothing I've ever felt before! When he grabs my balls and gives them a tug, I fling my head backward, tossing it from side to side, attempting to stifle the screams of joy I know shouldn't travel beyond his office door.


Then, just when I'm close to coming and can't control the increasingly loud moans that issue from my throat, he dismounts my dick and turns me around again. I collapse onto his desk, breathing heavily. "Can't have you coming so soon," he says, reaching into his desk and pulling out a plastic bottle of Vaseline. "No, the fun's just beginning."


And with that he works a generous squeeze of the lotion into my butt hole. Then another. And another. Now he's got two fingers probing around inside me. Oh, shit, make that three! And while he stretches my hole, expertly massaging it, it's like I can't get enough of him. And that dick I feared was too big for the more rigid, unyielding confines of my throat I think will now prove to be just what I need up my ass to fully satisfy the urgent desire that's taken possession of me.


When he abandons my hole to slather a liberal supply of the lubricant all over his dick, I crane my neck again to witness this greasy union of cock and hand, noticing that even he, with his large hands and long fingers, can just barely encircle his shaft with his fist. He places his hands on my hips and presses his dick head lightly against my butt hole. "Ready?" he asks.


I rest my head in the cradle of my arms and direct my attention to the increasing pressure against my hole. He very carefully maneuvers his enormous tool up my ass, a little at a time, each forward thrust sending another surge of indescribable pleasure into every portion of my body. Finally I feel his hips against my ass cheeks, and I realize he's worked all of that remarkable dick inside me. Impaled on his pole I silently hand all of myself over to him--my body, my will, my desires and give myself up into the service of this powerful man and his orgasm.


He begins to work his dick slowly in and out of me. One moment his cock h ead stretches my hole; the next, his hips pressing against my butt impede farther progress. His pace accelerates, and he tightens his hold on my hips.


My own throbbing dick hangs stiff and unattended between my legs. It aches to be stroked. I know I'm dripping pre-come by the bucket, and I think there's going to be a stain on the carpet that the cleaning man won't fail to notice.


Mr. Slater grunts and groans as he works his cock in and out of me with pistonlike force. I hear the animal take over the man, and his grip on me tightens in an effort to steady himself for his orgasm. "Yeah," I encourage him. "That's it! Ram that fat fucking dick of yours all the way up my ass!"


And ram it in he does, so much so that the aftershocks of each brutal thrust jolt my entire body and set my unbearably stiff dick jerking back and forth on the verge of orgasm. And then, with a tortured, guttural "O-o-oh!" that sticks in his throat, h e plunges his cock all the way in me one more time, and I feel the explosion of his hot come up my ass. "O-o-oh!" again and again as each new plunge deposits a fresh load of steamy come inside me.


Then, to my surprise, leaving his dick all the way up my ass, he reaches down, grabs my cock, and jacks me off with expert strokes that I know will have me shooting in no time. I scream, out of controL as he speeds me toward my climax. He presses his body against mine, and with his free hand he reaches around to stifle my cries.


That's when I come. Constrained by his dick up my ass and his hand on my mouth, sandwiched between his desk and his body, I can hardly move as he jerks the come out of my cock, sending me into roller-coaster waves of exquisite pleasure. When he finally works all the come out of me and we've had time to recover from our orgasms, I twist my head around and say, "Now that's what I call sexual harassment!"


"Oh?" he says, dismounting me. "Well, I wonder what you're going to say about what I have in mind for tomorrow afternoon when you bring up my mail."


"I can hardly wait. Though it's damn cruel of you to keep me in suspense for an entire twenty-four hours."


Lifting himself off me and sliding his softening dick out of my hole, he says, "Well, in that case ...." Grinning, he once again opens the desk drawer that held the Vaseline.


"Oh, my God!" I exclaim as I look into the drawer to see the most remarkable assortment of ....


But I'd better tell you about that some other time. What happens next is a story in itself!



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