Date: Mon, 8 Jul 2013 23:29:56 +0100 (BST)
From: Robert Furlong <robert.furlong@rocketmail.com>
Subject: Work and Play

WORK AND PLAY
Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong
robert.furlong@rocketmail.com
Find my older stories at www.screeve.org

===

Over the coming days, I realised I was noticing other men's backsides in
the same way that I would have previously noticed women's breasts.  They
were no longer just innocuous mounds of flesh which they sat on, and did
other less palatable things with; they were suddenly extremely captivating,
from their different shapes and sizes, to the varied hemlines made by their
underwear when they bent over.

I work in engineering – still a largely male-dominated field – and
abruptly the forest of trouser-clad arses which had surrounded me for years
without me paying any attention, were the subjects of my fascination and
fantasies.

Some of the guys – especially the younger ones – wore tight-fitting
trousers showing their firm and round backsides off beautifully.  I found
myself in the odd position of envying the cushioned seats of their office
chairs for being able to spend most of each day having such magnificent
buttocks pressing so intimately against them.  How good it would be to have
such pert cheeks perched on top of me for so long; how exciting to
furtively nuzzle between them as they bore down on me.

I wondered why I had never previously noticed the appeal of my fellow men's
backsides.  They were so ripe and round – so delicious-looking, and, I
had to admit it, so crying out to have a mouth to feast on them.  I would
spend hours daydreaming about doing to them the things I had seen on the
internet – hitching their trousers and underwear down and teasing their
hairy clefts with my tongue, revelling in their unique tastes and smells.

I could never remember developing erections at work before but now I seemed
to spend most of each day in a state of prominent arousal.  I took to
wearing a jacket to help conceal the activity going on in my trousers which
my underwear was unable to contain and would try to direct my hard-on,
whenever it was possible to do so, upwards beneath my belt so that it was
flat against my stomach.  In spite of such precautions, I'm pretty sure
that some of my workmates noticed that my trousers would sometimes tent
outwards at the crotch: I only hoped that they didn't notice that this
seemed to happen directly after I'd been staring at their bulging
backsides.

When erections became particularly problematic, I would retreat to the
gents at the end of my corridor so I could attend to myself as discreetly
as it was possible to do in a communal lavatory.  Visiting the gents had
the added bonus that I would occasionally get to see an exposed arse as
some men chose to use the urinal with their trousers and underwear pulled
down around their thighs.  I'd never understood why they would do that –
I was far too shy even to pull my cock out through my fly at the urinal and
would always make a beeline for the privacy of the cubicles – but what
had previously struck me as a rather exhibitionistic way of urinating was
now a further source of interest and excitement.

I'd loiter at the washbasins, watching my co-workers standing at the
urinals through the mirror as I cleaned my hands so thoroughly it was like
I had a compulsive disorder.  Some of them would glare over at me, aware
that I was looking at them, and I would hurriedly finish up and leave the
gents.  But mostly they'd be oblivious to my interest as they stood and
peed, allowing my eyes to feast on their exposed behinds and my cock to
throb in my trousers.  Flabby or muscular, hairy or smooth, round or
elongated – all of them fascinated me and made me yearn to press my face
into them so that my tongue could tickle their pert little holes.

One guy from the third floor – a young guy called Jason who was on the
design team – would hitch his trousers down around his thighs but leave
his underpants pulled up and covering his bum.  He wore tightly fitting
briefs of various colours, which beautifully cupped the paired orbs of his
buttocks and burrowed alluringly upwards into the deep valley between them.
He'd stand and urinate, either unaware or unconcerned that he was the
subject of my spellbound gaze, as I focussed in on where the material was
riding up between his cheeks, wondering how often it would brush across his
hot, pink ring and how much of his rich, earthy scent would be clinging to
the fabric.

How exciting would it feel to push my nose into the back of his briefs and
sniff his day's odours?  How arousing would he smell back there, just above
the tops of his legs where the sweatiness seeping back from his balls would
give way to something altogether more personal?  And how erotic would it be
to unpeel his briefs from his cheeks to compare the subtle fragrance he'd
transferred to the material with the more salacious flavour of its naked
source?

After my colleagues had fastened up their clothing and returned to work,
I'd duck into a cubicle and release my excitement into a wad of toilet
paper, hoping that the noise of other toilets flushing would conceal the
thumping rhythm of my fist and that whoever came in after me wouldn't be
able to smell the strong seminal odour which I left behind.  Then I'd
return to my desk with a cock that was mercifully softened but a conscience
that was plagued with guilt about where my thoughts had strayed to bring
that about.

===

"Oh, bugger."

One of the toner cartridges inside the printer in my office had jammed.
The printer is under my desk which makes it awkward to get to and difficult
to see inside of it when things go wrong and so, try as I might, I couldn't
release the cartridge from the mechanism which had trapped it.

Eventually I called IT support and they sent Bradley, one of their
technicians, down to help me.

Bradley hadn't been working at the company long.  He was a skinny guy in
his mid-twenties whose face always seemed to be bristled with a growth of
stubble in spite of the fact he probably shaved every day.  His hair was
receding quite noticeably and he kept it clipped very short like a lot of
men his age do when they find themselves going bald prematurely.  He'd
always struck me as being a very blokeish guy; one of the lads with a pint
in his hand in the pub after work and a player in the Friday evening
five-a-side league.

We went through the usual small-talk that we always did when an IT mishap
brought him to my office.  He wasn't big on conversation but he was quick
to let me know, with a gush of pride which made him seem rather endearing,
that his girlfriend was pregnant.

"That's great," I said, smiling to conceal my impatience at getting my
printer working again.

"Yeah," he said, beaming broadly.  "We're both over the moon, to be
honest."

I wanted to curtail things with a "Well anyway..." and move him onto the
matter of the printer, but he clearly wanted to talk about what he saw as
his impressive accomplishment.

So I asked, "Well... er... when's it due?"

"In the Spring... which gives us time to get a place together.  Somewhere
for the three of us."

He looked at me expectantly and I realised I was supposed to grin inanely
and coo something about it being so sweet.  Feeling irritated with myself,
I dutifully did so.

After a bit more obligatory back-and-forth about the foetus, Bradley
finally turned his attention to the printer.

He peered at it in the gloom under my desk.

I said, stating the obvious, "It's a bit difficult to see how it's become
jammed."

"Is it possible to get the printer out from under the desk?"

I shook my head.  "Not without a lot of faff unplugging things and fiddling
with cables."

He unclipped a leather pouch from his belt and unfurled it to reveal a set
of small screwdrivers and other tools.  Among them was a slim torch.

"Et voila!" he said, switching it on, with an expectant smirk that made him
look as if he thought I would be impressed by his use of French.

Having failed to illicit a response, he crouched down on all fours and
leaned forwards to shine his torch into the bowels of my printer.  His
backside stuck out from under my desk, looking a bit scrawny pressed
outwards against his black work trousers but no less appealing for it.  His
cheeks betrayed the telltale hemline of his briefs, pointing downwards like
a chevron signposting the puckered prize nestling between his legs.

"Keep your eye on the screen," he called out.

I recoiled a little, fearing that he'd caught me peering at his bum, but
realised he was too absorbed in looking at the printer to have noticed my
interest.  He just wanted me to see if whatever it was he was doing was
having any effect on-screen, which it wasn't.

"No response yet," I replied.

I looked back at his bum sticking out as he kneeled forwards on all fours.
In spite of how skinny it was, I was still fascinated by the deep crack
opening up between his buttocks as he leaned further forwards and wondered
what it would be like to press my face into it.  Would I be able to smell
the same enticing scent that had so mesmerised me when I'd been underneath
Guy?  Would it have the same effect on me, even if I was sniffing it
through his clothing?

My cock began to lengthen in my boxer shorts and I put my hand in my pocket
to prevent it from making an obvious lump in my trousers.

"Is anything popping up now?" he asked from beneath my desk.

"Er... nothing on the screen," I muttered.

He repositioned himself and opened his legs a little wider, pushing his bum
out further as he strained to access the printer.  His crack was splayed
invitingly open and I stared at it, feeling my cock slowly hardening
against my hand at the thought of what lay just beneath the material of his
trousers and underwear.

He called out, "Do you want get down behind me?"

I knew what he meant but the image which his question had presented made my
cock twitch and I felt a dribble of liquid ooze out from its slit.  Taking
my hand out of my pocket and aware that I was sporting a thickening rod
across one leg of my trousers, I knelt down behind him and peered over his
back to try and see what he was doing.  My face was level with his arse but
I kept it a respectable distance away from it.

He looked back at me over his shoulder and said, "I thought you'd want to
know how to do this – save you time if it happens again."

I nodded.  "Very helpful, yes."

He added, "You're gonna have to lean forward a bit... this is quite
fiddly."

I moved forwards a little, my face homing in on the splayed buttocks he was
presenting to me.

He smiled at me and teased, "I'll try not to get my bum in your face!"

My cock lengthened again and I could feel the thickening shaft being
squeezed by the leg of my trousers.  I smiled back and, trying to appear
casual, said, "Don't worry about it.  I've been around the block a few
times..."

I wasn't sure what I meant by that last statement, but he grinned as if it
somehow made sense and turned back to the misbehaving printer.

He said, "Your problem's with the feeder mechanism... the delivery unit is
misaligned."

I muttered something to suggest I might be vaguely interested in whatever
it was he was talking about and directed my attention to his backside.

This had turned out to be something of an opportunity.

He kept prattling on, peppering what he was saying with a wide array
printer-related vocabulary which I neither understood nor had any interest
in, while I studied his arse.  His buttocks seemed long and thin and oddly
feminine but it may have been that he had his trousers hitched up a bit
high.  Where the black material had ridden up between his cheeks was no
doubt chafing his briefs against his crack.  There was a conspicuous pair
of bulges between his legs where his nuts were pressing up against the
material.  They must be nicely plump, I mused, and from the way he'd
managed to fertilise his girlfriend so quickly, the liquid they produced
was clearly vigorously potent.

He turned back to me and said, "Get a bit closer.  I promise I won't fart!"

I smiled.  Yeah, I'd definitely draw the line there.

I moved further towards him, my chin now almost touching his backside as I
pretended to strain to see what he was doing inside the printer.  Merely
being in this position, with my face so close to another man's arse, was
making my cock harden to full size.  It was confined by the position it was
in inside my boxer shorts and the fat bulbous head of it felt like it was
trying to tear through the material as it expanded.

I asked, "So can you get it to budge?"

He muttered about unclipping something first and told me to watch
carefully.  As he leaned forwards to do whatever it was he was doing, he
moved his arse slightly towards me so that the crack between his buttocks
where his trousers had ridden up was now level with my nose.

I gently pressed my nose between his bum cheeks, inhaling the smell of his
splayed arse crack.  Instead of the pungent whiff I'd been hoping for, all
I got was the sanitary perfume of washing powder from the material of his
trousers.  It was a Monday – they would likely have been washed over the
weekend and fresh on this morning.

Oh, bugger.

I moved my nose further down, towards the spot where his arsehole was
likely to be, hoping for at least a suggestion of something more natural.
My cock was throbbing in anticipation, painfully struggling to straighten
in the cramped space it was in.  My foreskin had retracted, exposing the
pink sensitive head of it to the coarse material of my boxer shorts.

I pressed my nose into his crack, right where his hot little ring would be
and –

Somebody coughed behind me.

I leapt up, banging my head noisily and rather painfully against the
underside of my desk in my haste.  Reeling, I lurched backwards and then,
using my chair to help me, staggered to my feet.

In front of me was a guy I vaguely knew from the accounts department.  He
was tall and well-built, with a large muscular chest and a good head of
black hair.  I seemed to think he was called Cameron.

He was staring at me, his expression inscrutable.

I muttered, rubbing my sore head, "Sorry... I was just... he's fixing my
printer."

He said, in a voice as impassive as his face, "I brought you some product
specifications to check through."

"Oh right.  Thanks."

He put them down on my desk.

Then he peered down at my crotch.  And stared at it pointedly.

I realised that my erection was obvious, tenting the front of my trousers
in an unmistakable prominent rod.  Flushing with embarrassment, I covered
my excitement with my hand.

"Sorry... I... er..."

Cameron – if that was his name – looked back up to my face, his
expression still impenetrable.

Bradley's voice called out from beneath my desk, "You might want to see
this, Rob!  I think I've got it!"  Whatever he was fiddling with made a
noise like a cartoon spring.

Cameron glanced down at the source of the voice and then returned his gaze
to me.  "Well, I'll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing."

I muttered, "Yeah."

He added, with perhaps the merest suggestion of humour, "Enjoy."

And he turned and left us to it.

I didn't get to sample whatever delights might have been lurking in
Bradley's arse-crack behind the strong smell of washing powder.  I watched
him release the cartridge, not really taking in what he was doing but
instead replaying what had just happened in my mind to try and fathom out
how much Cameron might have seen and what he might do about it.

I spent the rest of the day – most of that week, actually – waiting
to be called to my manager's office to be told that sexual harassment
charges were being brought against me.  I was ready with my incredulous
laugh and my outraged disbelief at what I was being accused of.  "Sniffing
a man's backside!?" I was ready to throw back at them derisively.  "Bradley
the IT guy!?  Is this some kind of joke?  Is it April Fools' or something?"

But no call came.

Meanwhile, I did a bit of discreet research into Cameron.  That was indeed
his name – his full name was Cameron Waterhouse – and he was married
with a couple of kids.  He had a reputation as a safe, reliable pair of
hands and of being very sociable although a little on the boring side.

The next time I saw him was in the corridor when he walked straight past me
without even seeming to notice me.  I was unable to stop myself blushing,
of course, but Cameron seemed completely unaware of me.

I wondered if perhaps I'd been mistaken and he hadn't seen what I was doing
to Bradley's arse.  Or, if he had seen where my nose had been headed, maybe
he couldn't believe it – after all, it was widely known in the office
that I'd been married for nearly a decade and having my face stuck into the
male IT technician's backside wouldn't be a likely scenario for me to get
myself into.

He'd seen my erection – that much was unfortunately true.  I couldn't
pretend that he hadn't – my cock is far too large to pass off as a stray
wallet or displaced mobile phone.  The thick and curving protrusion it had
formed in my trousers when I'd stood up had made it explicitly clear that
he was looking at my aroused penis – he could probably see the engorged
head of it throbbing.  Maybe it had been that which had stunned him rather
than the activity which had been going on under the desk.  And for all it
was embarrassing to have been caught with an erection at work, these things
must happen occasionally even in a mostly-male workplace and – let's
face it – I hadn't actually done anything wrong.

So I figured I wouldn't hear anything further from Cameron.

===

During the weeks which followed, I stole every opportunity I could to pore
over the wealth of information about rimming on the internet and, of
course, to study even more intently the pictures available.

From the stories I read, it seemed that the route I had taken, from a
reluctant blowjob to help out a desperate friend to an accidental discovery
of illicit treasures lurking behind his balls, was the most common way that
men had found that they had a taste for their fellow men's backsides.  I
was almost disappointed that my introduction to rimming seemed so
unremarkable.

There was, however, a sprinkling of more interesting stories of discovery.
In one case a young-sounding guy had been helping his friend climb over a
high wall and had ended up, after his friend slipped, with his face buried
in his mate's bum.  In another, a similar position had been stumbled upon
by two drunken students during a game of Twister.  The confines of tents
provided opportunities for others, with the claustrophobic scrambling
around to remove and pull on clothes leading to some fortuitous
arse-in-face moments.  And a bet between two rugby players had ended up
with one of them being made to kiss his mate's arse in the changing rooms
after a game to much hilarity from the team when the guy doing the kissing
had ended up with a prominent bulge in his jockstrap.

While some men said they preferred to rim a freshly-soaped and clean-shaven
backside, the majority, like me, admitted to being excited by its natural
hairiness and its own inherent smells and tastes.  "I expected it be gross
but was amazed how electrified and aroused the funky smell of him made me
feel," one man wrote, succinctly capturing my own experience.  Another
explained that "the sight of another bloke's hairy arse would, just a while
ago, have been something I'd have been disgusted by.  Now I want to get in
there, right between his cheeks, and just a whiff of that manly bum smell
gets me hard every time."  Quite.

Gleaning any sort of clue as why this might be the case – and it did
seem to be the case among a wide swathe of men – proved to be
perplexingly difficult.  Theories abounded but none stood out as the most
convincing.  Some men pointed out that we all have a homosexual aspect to
our sexualities and suggested that, as male genitals hold so little
attraction for us as predominantly straight men, we were channelling these
feelings towards something which was more rounded and feminine.  Others
commented, perhaps more plausibly, that the pleasures of rimming were a
throwback from an earlier era of humanity, when grooming between primitive
men formed an important social function.  Supporting evidence for the ideas
expressed was scantily vague, however, and it seemed that nobody really had
any credible clue as to why same-sex rimming was, for some of us, so
irresistibly attractive.

A few men seemed to see rimming as a precursor to penile penetration; a
moistening of the rectum in preparation for mounting the other man.  That
idea hadn't occurred to me and at first I rejected it as something which
would not interest me.  I really could not imagine myself buggering another
man – putting my penis into such a squalid area seemed a distinct
turn-off and I didn't think I could maintain an erection long enough to
successfully climax back there.  But having said that, just a few weeks
earlier I would not have imagined myself capable of doing what I had done
and had so enjoyed; would not have dreamt that I would be trawling websites
such as these.

I discovered that it was possible to watch movies showing men rimming each
other for free.  There was a huge variety of material showing men engaged
in a broad spectrum of sexual activities with one another, from mutual
masturbation through to anal penetration in its many guises.  Although I
watched quite a few of them pertaining to be 'hardcore', I didn't find them
nearly as arousing as those which cast men's tongues and arses so
beautifully together in the lead roles.

Of the rimming videos I had many favourites, but the one I most frequently
returned to had two men squatting on a bed, back to back, with their legs
wide open and their balls swinging pendulously.  A third guy was beneath
them, his tongue outstretched, licking first one man's squatting arse and
then the other.  How I envied him: poised beneath not one but two
magnificent backsides, feasting on their different flavours and relishing
their different smells.  All three men were erect and the different sizes
and shapes of their excited cocks added an extra layer to my fascination
with this video: one of the men had a small stubby dick which I found quite
cute; another's was longer but thinner with a graceful curve to its shaft.
The third – the guy lying on his back – was built rather like me with
a long, thick cock and a very prominent pair of nuts; unlike me he showed
no self-consciousness about his size and I admired the way he flaunted his
excitement and kneaded his ample bollocks while his mouth got to work on
his friends' arseholes.

When Jake was out of the house, I masturbated frantically in front of
pictures and movies of other men doing what I myself had enjoyed so much.
And when he was at home, I found ways of doing it more discreetly just as I
had on that first night.  I dreaded him catching me pleasuring myself in –
what would probably seem to him – indefensibly sordid circumstances, but
the urge to explore the wealth of material which was out there was simply
too powerful to resist.

Friday evenings were my best opportunity to trawl the web because Jake
often went over to stay over with his mum.  I tried not to think about how
my ex-wife would react if she saw me like that: hunched with my trousers
around my ankles noisily whacking off in front of images of men licking
other men's splayed arses.

At least she couldn't sneer her favourite put-down: "Predictable as ever,
Robert."

===

Next story: Silas in the Library

===