Working for Darren

NOTES>> This is the sixth chapter in the Working For Darren series. Safe sex won't appear in this story all that often, but I trust it appears a lot in your own lives. Sex will appear quite often though, sometimes quite graphically, and invariably of the gay and BDSM nature, so only read on if the law of your chosen land allows. The copyright is all mine, subject to Nifty's rules on the matter.

I can't believe nearly two years have passed since my last Nifty submissions - with both this story and my other piece - Contracted To Justin - left hanging. I'm sorry guys - life got really busy, plus there's too many great new horny stories here on Nifty to distract me. Still, I hope this instalment satisfies - and is worth the wait.

Despite the two- year gap between them, this and the previous chapter are really meant to be read together. So if you've not read the previous chapters in a while, I'd re-do Chapter 5 before reading this.

I have the next chapter of Darren in my head, and the next instalment of Justin in progress. Plus I have a third story set in a frat house in my mind. I'm not sure when the next chapter will go live, but it definitely won't be a two year wait.

In the meantime - do get in touch. Really, it makes my day! Feedback, positive or otherwise, is always appreciated. Or just let me know you're out there reading this stuff. You can get me at - josh_armstrong2007@hotmail.com.

CHAPTER SIX: Shitty circumstances, shitty punishment, and some well shitty shorts

So, you might reasonably ask, how exactly did I get from that office bathroom to my flat, and, more importantly, what further torment and degradation was dished out along the way?

And why was it that, as I headed home that night, I had to conceal an unmovable erection. An aching hard-on that no mental willpower could shift. And, given Darren's final words, which my hands could not touch either. As I lay in my bed that night, replaying the events that followed Mike's blow job, I felt embarrassment, disgust and anger. But also undeniable lust.

Embarrassment at what Julie might be thinking, and at the way people had looked at me, my cum covered t-shirt and my tented trousers on my commute home. Disgust at the cummy, sweaty, shit-stained boxers I'd been made to sniff and lick. And anger at Darren, for making me do these things, and at myself for allowing him to. The lust, strangely, came from everything - the embarrassment, the questions, the funny looks, the boxers, the punishment, the face fucking, the outrage.

I was probably most angry of all at the idea that my boss could ban me from wanking, from touching my own cock. Yet despite that anger, and the lust, I didn't disobey my boss' instructions. I lay there, naked, and sweating, my stiff cock dribbling pre-cum onto my stomach. But I didn't touch myself. I lay there, lost in my thoughts for ages, until finally I fell asleep. I can't remember what I dreamt of, but when I woke there was cum everywhere. So I can guess.

But back to the bathroom.

Having fucked my throat, my workmate Mike got dressed. He'd told me to stay naked until he'd left the room, and forbid me from touching my stiff cock. Then he left the cubicle where he'd raped me, and pissed on the jacket and shirt that, as instructed, I'd left in one of the urinals. Then he left me alone.

First I just knelt there doing nothing. Trousers and boxers still around my ankles, stiff cock and bruised ass still on show, Mike's warm sticky cum on my face.

Then I started to panic. I stood up and stumbled out into the main area of the bathroom. Because of the panic I didn't think to pull up by boxers and trousers, and as a result as I left the cubicle where I'd sucked off Mike I tripped and fell on the tiled floor. There I stayed for a few seconds, as an array of panicked thoughts ran through my mind. Panicked thoughts of two kinds.

First. What if someone was to walk in right now and find me like this? Naked but for the trousers and scuzzy boxers around my ankles. Cock hard, ass bruised, my face covered in cum. Lying in this state on the bathroom floor. What would I say if someone found me like this? How could I ever live that down?

Second. What was I going to do? Mike had pissed on half of my clothes. I couldn't wear piss covered clothes. But I couldn't leave the bathroom topless either. And I couldn't even hide until everyone else had gone home, because I had to be in Darren's office in twenty-five minutes to give him his blowjob.

Again. Bugger fuck shit.

But, just like when I'd gone into panic mode earlier while I'd waited outside the bathroom before going in to service Mike, the panic peaked and then stopped, and I began to think more clearly.

"OK", I said to myself, "one thing at a time".

So, first, get yourself covered up as best you can.

I stood up, pulled up my scuzzy boxers - getting a wiff of their increasingly smelly state as I did so - and then pulled up my pants. My cock, balls and ass were hidden again.

Second, get rid of the piss covered jacket and shirt.

There was no way I could wear them, and if someone was to come into the bathroom, well, I could quickly hide in a cubicle, but they'd still see piss soaked clothes. There was a bin in the corner of the room. I gathered up the clothes - trying my best not to squeeze them - they'd soaked up most of Mike's piss, but I knew it would drip out over me and the floor if I squeezed them. I quickly moved them into the bin, getting only a little of Mike's still warm piss on my hands. Then, in what I thought was an inspired move, given the stress I was under, I covered the clothes with about 50 paper towels, which, I hoped, would obscure the clothes from anyone who came in, and hopefully mask the pissy smell too.

Third, get washed. I needed to get rid of Mike's cum on my face and his piss on my hands.

That was easy - I'd even remembered to keep a few paper towels back so I could dry myself.

The next bit wasn't going to so easy. How was I going to get from the toilet to Darren's office - a route that would involve passing at least a hundred people - without a jacket or shirt?

I could feel the panic rising again as I racked my mind for a solution. But before the panic set in I made a quick decision - I went back into the cubicle where I'd sucked Mike's cock, locked the door, dropped my pants and boxers again, and sat on the toilet.

Three reasons.

One, there was still a chance someone, anyone, could walk into this bathroom and while I'd removed the cum and covered my genitals, I'd still have to explain why I was topless.

Two, I thought a sit down would help me think.

Three, I actually needed to piss and shit. The stress and panic of the last hour had really unsettled my stomach, and while I'd not eaten any lunch, my breakfast was still in there.

During my most recent panic attack my cock had gone soft, so it was easy to piss. And the shit followed. It felt good. And soon a solution to my problem followed in a post-shit brainwave. I had got to know a girl in the promotions department - Julie. They had promotional t-shirts with the company's logo on them. If I asked her to leave one outside the bathroom I could put it on for my walk to Darren's office. She was a nice girl, and while I didn't like the thought of explaining why I was topless in the men's room, I was sure she'd help me out. And while it might look odd that I was wearing a t-shirt instead of my usual jacket and shirt, because it was a company t-shirt most of the people I'd pass might assume I was going to some promotional event. Genius.

My mobile was still in my trouser pockets. Having come up with a solution I got it out and quickly called my company's switchboard, asking for Julie in promotions.

I'd not thought what I would say until she answered, so was quite proud with what I came up with - a tap in the mens-room had suddenly started spraying water everywhere, I'd managed to stop it, but my jacket and shirt were wet through. Could she bring a t-shirt I could wear instead.

I thought I was pretty convincing, though I'm not sure Julie completely bought it. Mainly because I started to stumble when she started trying to be helpful. She wanted to call the company's janitor to fix the tap, she thought she should ask a cleaner to bring a mop, she was bothered my trousers would be wet too. I think I protested too much when I told her all these offers were unnecessary, making her suspicious of my story. Still, she agreed to leave a t-shirt outside the mens room door and, more importantly, not to get the company's whole maintenance team involved.

For a brief moment I was happy. Even though I knew from the clock on my mobile that in fifteen minutes time I'd have to report to Darren, who would make me strip again, and no doubt make me wait in the corner of his room in my exposed state, before brutally face fucking me for a second time. But, despite Mike's best efforts, I'd found a way to get to my boss' room on time without going topless in the office. And that made me happy.

The happiness, though, was quick to go. And not because of my looming appointment with my sadistic boss. Suddenly I realised something.

I realised it as I stood up and went to grab some toilet paper. Suddenly I remembered what Darren had said this morning. When he'd found a skid mark on my underpants. He'd said "I forbid you from wiping your ass whenever you're wearing these boxers". Had he meant that? I mean really? I mean that's just disgusting, isn't it?

But he'd meant everything else he'd said so far. So presumably he'd meant this too. But how would he know? There's no way he could ever find out whether or not I wiped my ass when I had a shit. Except. Well, what if he asked me? Would I be able to convincingly lie to him? Of course not. I'd fess myself up the minute he asked, I knew I would. And I didn't want to give him any reason to extend my period of punishment.

So, decision made. Though I still had my doubts, mainly because this shit had been - how can I put it - rather runny. It was the stress. I always shat that way when I was stressed. I couldn't help thinking there'd be quite a bit down there left to soak into my increasingly disgusting shorts.

But I put those doubts aside. I stood up and shook my ass a little in the hope any bits of shit stuck in there would fall into the toilet. Then I pulled my boxers up. I tried not to pull them too tightly into my crack, but couldn't help thinking some grim juices were soaking into the already stained fabric anyway. I felt a few drops of piss leak out into the groin area too.

But somehow I managed not to stress about it too much, most probably because I was far too busy stressing about my shirtlessness and the fact I now had to be in Darren's office in just over five minutes. God I hoped Julie had come through for me.

I pulled up my trousers, washed my hands, and opened the bathroom door. And there, to much relief, was a t-shirt. I suddenly felt another helping of happiness wash through my body. In fact I couldn't remember feeling this happy in some time. I'd just been face fucked in the men's room at my work, while stripped and exposed. I was about to go and be face fucked by my boss, the boss who was physically and sexually abusing me because of one simple misdemeanour.

And yet, for the minutes that followed me finding the t-shirt Julie had left for me - as I put it on, and finally got to leave that Godforsaken rape room, and as I walked through my workplace to my boss' office - I felt happier than I could remember for a long time. Who'd have thought you just needed a workmate to fuck your throat and piss on your clothes to feel happiness?

Though I think the happy feeling was really because I'd successfully overcome the trap Mike had put in my path. He'd left me with piss-covered clothes and a deadline to meet - to be in Darren's office by five. And despite the trap, I'd made it. Well, just. I think it was a minute past five by the time I actually knocked on my boss' door. But he didn't seem to notice. He was on the phone.

In fact my happiness remained even as I entered my boss' office and went through what had now become my routine humiliation - stripping off my clothes, waddling over to the corner of his room with by trousers and scummy boxers around my ankles, and then standing, cock out, until he was ready to abuse me some more. As I'd walked in he was leaning against his desk speaking on his mobile phone. He put his hand over the front of his mobile and said "get stripped quick cum breath, go and wait in your corner, standing not kneeling, cock facing me". Normally I'd have been bothered he'd not sufficiently covered up the mobile's microphone before talking to me in that way, but, as I say, on that occasion the happiness remained and somehow it didn't bother me.

On Friday he'd told me that at my five pm sessions I should face inwards, instead of facing the wall, and then kneel, presumably so I was positioned to take his cock into my mouth. But his latest instructions contradicted that.

Nevertheless, I did as he said. I quickly peeled off the t-shirt I'd recently acquired and hung it on those hooks by the door. Then just as quick - almost on auto-pilot now - I dropped my trousers and pulled down my boxers. I didn't have chance to properly look, but it struck me that the brown stain across the crack crease was bigger and darker than before. I stood up straight, waddled to the corner, turned so I faced into the room and put my hands behind my head.

Strangely, given how I'd reacted to my earlier degradation at the hands of my boss, my cock was quite soft. It had been that way ever since my shit - the fuck off hard on that had sprung up during Mike's face fucking having long gone. And despite the stripping and the waddling and the displaying of my naked body in this way, my cock wasn't even semi-hard. Strangely a happy mind didn't seem to equal a happy cock.

Darren, though, quickly managed to turn things round.

Firstly, as he continued with his phone call he started to walked around me, feeling and squeezing my body as he went. First he pinched my left buttock, and I flinched a little - it was still only a few hours since my last paddling remember. He slapped my right buttock in response. That hurt more, but I resisted the temptation to flinch again.

Then, as he idly walked around me, he ran his fingers (quite forcefully - almost scratching really) over my tits, then my shoulder blade, then my tummy, then my buttocks. My cock responded. Partly because the touching was actually quite sensual (if a little forced). But also it seemed so wrong, for him to be touching me this way while conducting what was obviously an important business call. Then he started to run his middle finger up my crack, then he twisted my nips, then he flicked my balls a few times, quite hard. And then he started wanking my dick. By the time he finished his call ten minutes later I was at full hard on again.

My cock was happy. My mind was not. For reasons I wasn't sure of I'd started to get stressed again as he'd played with my body, even though, compared to the paddlings, this wasn't very brutal at all. The stress levels rose to a new height, and that short interlude of happiness vanished, once he spoke.

"Open your mouth then" he said once the mobile call was closed, the phone neatly slipped into his shirt pocket.

I didn't get the significance of the request at first. So I complied without thinking.

"What the fuck?" he responded, louder and in a pissed off fashion. "Where is it? Where the fuck is it?"

I still had no idea what he was talking about so I couldn't think of anything to say.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about do you?"

"No sir, I'm sorry sir".

"Where the fuck, you shit brained faggot, is Mike's deposit?"

I still didn't get it. The moment of happiness must have fogged my brain. Or perhaps it was the ordeal in the bathroom that had made me forget Darren's final instruction when I'd last been in his office back at lunchtime.

"Right, that's it, this isn't working, I'm going to get my Dad down here. I thought we could keep this private, but if you're just going to piss over every thing I ask you to do, I don't have the time".

He took the phone out of his shirt pocket and started dialling. My whole body went into overdrive - my brain raced, my stomach bubbled, I nearly threw up (though that was possibly Mike's cum trying to get out). Despite that fact I had a memory jolt, and suddenly realised what Darren was talking about.

I could suddenly hear his voice from lunchtime. "When you're done with Mike you can come straight here ready to give me my 5pm blow job. And keep Mike's cum in your mouth, I want to check it".

"Ah shit," I said, uncharacteristically, I hardly ever swear. "Mike's cum. Shit, I forgot. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry Darren. I mean Sir. I swallowed it. I forgot."

He slapped my face. Hard. But, crucially, he stopped dialling and put his phone back in his pocket.

"Slave boys don't fucking swear", he said, almost matter of factly.

He paused, for about five seconds.

"Where's your jacket and shirt?"

"I lost them" I said. "Well, I didn't lose them, I had to... Well, you see, Mike pissed on them".

Another slap. And then another. And one more. Each one harder that the previous one. The last one was so hard I nearly fell over. As he slapped he spoke single words.

"No... fucking... swearing".

Was 'pissed' really swearing? The slapping stopped, but the dressing down continued.

"And if you ever try to blame Mike for one of your fuck ups again, I'll strip you naked, carry you to his desk, and get him to paddle your balls till they bleed". Shit, that was the third mention of a ball paddling today. They wouldn't really paddle my balls would they?

He walked to his desk, got his paddle out of his drawer, and walked back towards me, gently patting his hand with the paddle.

"I've got to punish you for this, you know that. We'll stick with you're ass, but it's gotta hurt, because that's some bad shit you've been pulling. Swallowing Mike's cum in violation of my instructions. Fifty swats. Violating company uniform codes. Fifty swats. Arriving at my office one minute late. Fifty swats. And standing in your corner, when I clearly told you on Friday that in the afternoons you kneel. Fifty swats".

He was now standing by me, talking right by my left ear and squeezing my balls, not too hard, but hard enough to hurt. "And if you ever score 200 swats in one afternoon again, I'll paddle your balls till they bleed". As he said that he squeezed my balls real tight.

"OK" he continued. "Step out of your trousers and shorts, take your position for the paddle".

Now, you, or any rationale person, would surely say at this point: "What the fuck are you doing? This guys is only your boss. This job is not worth this". And you'd be right. Did he really expect me to hold Mike's cum in my mouth for half an hour so he could check it? And I wasn't in uniform because my workmate, his friend by all accounts, pissed on it. Me being one minute late did not give him the right to paddle my ass. And I had stood instead of kneeling because he'd fucking told me too. If you are saying any of this, you are, of course, completely right.

And yet not only didn't I say any of this stuff to Darren, I didn't even think it. The only thoughts that went through my mind were these.

I've fucked up big time.

I've come this far, I've still got my job, I need to keep Darren on side.

If he thinks 200 swats are justified, then that's what I must endure.

It's not that I didn't fear 200 swats. Actually, I reckoned I could take it. On Friday I'd not thought it possible to take 30. But earlier that day I'd taken sixty odd in a row, on top of the forty Darren had unleashed first thing. I reckoned I could take 200 if I had to. But I knew it was going to take me to a whole new level of pain.

Nevertheless, I stepped out of my trousers and boxers (catching another glimpse of that dark shit stain in my shorts as I bent down to pull them over my shoes), stepped forward to the chair in front of Darren's desk, and leaned forward, exposing my already bruised ass.

I heard Darren pick up my clothes, and then he appeared in front of the chair on which I was leaning. He'd got my boxers, turned inside out. It was a really big shit stain, and was obviously still damp. It look disgusting.

"That is disgusting" Darren said, nodding towards my shit stain. Of course it was. And he'd caused it. "Is this how a fag like you gets his kicks? Shitting in his pants. It's perverted. You're perverted". As he finished speaking he pushed the boxers into my face with one hand, while grabbing the back of my head with the others, shouting a one word command. "Sniff" he said.

And he thought I was perverted?

Still, I did sniff. And a really big sniff to make it obvious I was obeying. It was horrible. He'd put my nose in the centre of the shit stain. It was still damp. The smell was intense, and left a taste in the back of my mouth. It was rank. So much so the next command was enough to make me rebel. Well, try to rebel.

"Lick".

I tried to push back, and shake my head. But he just pushed his two hands together, one tightly gripping the back of my head, the other pushing the fresh shit stain onto my face. He rubbed the fabric up and down a bit.

"Make that 250 swats. Now, unless you want to make that a 250 swat ball paddling, you fucking lick".

That did it. I stuck my tongue into the fabric covering my face. Immediately a horrible shitty taste filled my mouth. I pulled my tongue back in, but Darren quickly shouted "lick properly, six times, top to bottom". I complied. How I did it without throwing up I will never know. That first taste of shit was one of the worst experiences of my life, despite all the painful and degrading things that were to come.

After my six licks - Darren could obviously count them, as he was still holding the rank boxers to my face - he crunched up my disgusting underpants so they made a ball by my lips. You've presumably guessed what he did next. He pushed it into my mouth. Compared to the shit stain licking the taste wasn't so abhorrent, but it was pretty unpleasant nonetheless.

Then, without any further words, the paddling began. He delivered the 250 swats in sets of 50. After the first set he paused to rub and squeeze my ass cheeks. After the second he went to the fridge by the door and took out and drank a bottle of water. After the third he actually made a phone call, checking some friend was still on for meeting at some bar. And after the fourth he spent a minute or two flicking my balls again. Harder than before.

I cannot begin to tell you the mental and physical torture of that paddling. After the first fifty my ass burned like nothing I'd ever felt before, and I started to doubt my earlier confidence I'd survive this. But, as I started to tune out from Darren's counting, and as one hit to my ass merged with another, the assault seemed to pass faster and I became sure again I really could take this. The fact my cock was so hard it was throbbing and leaking copious amounts of pre-cum, which dripped onto the floor (after flicking my balls, Darren had scooped some up and rubbed it into my pubes), probably helped.

My cock had been hard throughout, even during those most horrific moments of shit stain licking.

And it stayed hard through everything that followed the thrashing.

250 swats delivered, Darren told me to get up. He pulled the boxers out of my mouth, dropped them on the floor, and ordered me to go and kneel in the corner of the room. Despite my ass being on fire making walking almost impossible, I obeyed. At least my mouth was no longer gagged. The shitty taste remained, but the rank saliva-draining shorts had gone.

Darren followed and, once positioned directly in front of me, dropped his trousers and boxers down to his knees. His cock was at full mast. He'd clearly enjoyed paddling me big time. It was a magnificent sight. I could appreciate that, despite the pain going on at my rear end, and the continuing shitty taste in my mouth. I'd not seen him properly erect of course. It wasn't as thick as Mike's cock, but was a little longer. May be half an inch. But it was the proportions that made it so magnificent - somehow it was the perfect thickness for the length, and vice versa. I was still no expert at this point, but I doubted I'd ever see a cock quite as perfect as this one.

Not that I got to look it for long. He tapped my head, I took my cue and opened my mouth. And then he plunged in, deep, all in one go. Another brutal face fuck, with only brief respites for me to catch my breath. After just a few minutes I thought he was about to cum down my throat.

But then he pulled out completely and told me to fetch my t-shirt. I paused a little, partly because I'd not expected him to stop the fucking quite so suddenly, partly because standing up was quite awkward with the pain of my freshly paddled ass. It wasn't a long pause, but long enough to earn me another slap. I got up, fetched my t-shirt, then resumed my kneeling position. I opened my mouth expecting Darren to push back in, but instead he wanked himself five times and then started to cum. He spunked his load into my t-shirt. Six big shots of warm salty cum.

For some reason I was gutted. Not because he'd just covered the only item of clothing I had for above my waste in his spunk - that didn't occur to me until a few minutes later - but because I'd really wanted to drink his juices. At the time I couldn't fathom why. It wasn't because I liked the taste - that didn't come until later - it was because I was already adopting that subservient mentality where your mission is to please your master, and that means swallowing his cum. When you don't get to swallow, somehow it seems wrong, even when that's because your master won't let you. Darren possibly knew that was the case, and that's why he didn't let me swallow. Or perhaps he just wanted me to travel home in a cum covered t-shirt.

Once he was done he threw my t-shirt on the floor, pulled up his boxers and pants, and picked up a clock on his desk.

"OK fuck boy, get back in the corner, face the wall, hands behind your head".

He was fiddling with the clock as he said it. Then I heard him put the clock back on his desk. Then he was standing right behind me again. I could feel his breath on my neck, and he started squeezing my balls.

"I've set off the stopwatch on the clock on my desk. When it's counted down to zero it's going to bleep. You're to stay here until it bleeps". I could sense him turning round to look at the clock. "It's counting down now. You're not to move. Not once. Even when people come in here. No moving. Not even turning round to take a peak. You don't move till the clock bleeps. OK?"

"Yes sir".

"Good fag".

He slapped my ass, lightly, though it hurt like hell anyway because of the paddling. And then he put on his coat and left.

I'd not really considered his instructions until after he went. Compared to everything else that had happened today, the paddlings, the exposure of my body and situation to a workmate, the bathroom blow job and the trauma of the piss covered clothes, the shit stain licking and the violent face fuck I'd just endured, standing in the corner of an empty room seemed easy by comparison. It was only a few minutes after he'd gone that various things occurred to me.

I remembered how horrible this standing in the corner thing had been this morning - the physical and mental anguish. The pain of simply standing for so long. The mental torment of what would happen if someone other than Darren (and now Mike) walked into this unlocked room with me in this state.

And both were now worse.

The physical pain because my ass was still on fire from the major paddling it had received, my balls were aching from all the flicking and squeezing, and there was still a real shitty taste in my mouth (I'd not even had a helping of cum to mask the taste - perhaps that's why Darren didn't let me swallow).

The mental pain was worse because of something he'd just said. I wasn't to turn round "even when people come in". What did he mean "when". Surely he meant "if"? Or did he know something I didn't? Was a cleaner due in here? Fuck, I hoped not. It was bad enough having Mike in on my secret life, please no one else.

And, of course, I had no idea how long this was going to last. I couldn't move until the clock bleeped. But how long would that be? After what was probably about an hour it occurred to me Darren had checked the clock while standing behind me. He said it was counting down. Couldn't I sneak a quick look, and see how long I had to go? I agonised over this for about ten minutes - it was stupid, how would anyone know? Eventually I did it. Damn, the clock was facing away from me. He'd faked it when he seemed to look at it. Or he'd turned it round on his way out. Bugger.

In the end I stood there for three hours and ten minutes. I passed the time trying to decide what was worse: the pain in my ass, the aching in my balls, the awkwardness of having to stand with my hands behind my head, the fact my cock and burning ass were on display, the (albeit fading) shitty taste in my mouth, or the fact I was standing here thinking about these things.

Then, about two and half hours in I froze. All those thoughts disappeared in one second. I felt myself shiver, though my cock remained rigid. Shit, someone had just walked in. Who was it? Was it Darren? Was it a cleaner? What were they doing? Why haven't they remarked on me being here, naked, revealed, with a burning ass, here in the corner? The visitor walked towards me, and wrapped his hand around my ball sac. Thank fuck, it was Darren. His breath smelled of alcohol, his jacket of nicotine.

"So, shit licker, have you moved? Did you peak a look?"

Fuck. Lie, for God's sake Lie. "I'm sorry" I whispered. Why couldn't I do it?

"Oh dear" he said, quite calmly, but his grip on my balls got tighter. "You're one long fuck up really, aren't you. Do you really want to be fired, is that it? Do you secretly want me to send you to the board, tell them what a perverted fuck you are, get them to paddle and then fire your ass? Or perhaps you're just hoping if you fuck up enough I really will be forced to paddle these". As he said "these" he squeezed my balls tighter than ever. I winced. "Well, bum boy, perhaps I will".

He let me go, and seemed to go to his desk and pick up some folders.

"Don't forget to wait for the bleep", he said, walking towards the door. "When it goes, you put on your clothes, your shitty pants and your cummy vest, and you fuck off home. I'll see you tomorrow morning as usual. Make sure you're wearing those boxers again. And make sure you're here at eight at the latest".

"Yes sir".

He turned off the lights, and began to shut the door.

"Oh," he said, re-opening the door a little, "one last rule I forgot to mention. No wanking, you hear me. I'm trying to punish you remember. It's bad enough you get hard when I'm doing it, I'm not having you spilling your horrible faggot juice too. So, no more masturbation until I say so, OK?"

"Yes sir".

"Yes sir what?"

"Yes sir, I will not masturbate until you say so, sir".

"Good".

And with that he was gone. One final terrible blow. It was wrong he was doing this to me. It was wrong I got hard. But at least after my first paddling that day two wrongs had made a right - one of the best orgasms of my life. Now that was gone too.

Which is why I know lay in my bed, naked, without my duvet, looking down on the hardest hard on I'd ever known, pre-cum dripping into my navel, unable to do anything about it. I'd discarded my duvet because my cock kept touching it and that nearly made me cum. Cumming that way wouldn't technically speaking count as masturbation, but I was still sure it would be wrong in Darren's eyes.

After the three hours and ten minutes of standing in the corner of Darren's office, the last bit in the dark, the clock had finally bleeped. I turned it off, got dressed and rushed out of the office block. It was empty but for a security guard on reception, but I didn't want to have to talk to anyone in my current state. I rushed so much I forgot to find a sink so I could wash away that horrible taste in my mouth. Still it was fading already, and now my biggest concern was concealing my way obvious hard on and cum covered t-shirt. As you know, I didn't do a good job.

I did, however, manage to fall asleep without wanking. Eventually. Though when my own alarm clock woke me the next morning, at 6am sharp, the first thing I noticed was that dampness in my crotch. The still wet cum that was everywhere. Shit, was that allowed?

Feedback appreciated - josh_armstrong2007@hotmail.com.