What Steve loved more
than anything was shitting on company time. He'd pee, sure, when he
first rocked up, usually ten minutes before 9am, yawning. He'd make
his coffee in the company kitchen. Free milk, free sugar, free
coffee, tiny, tiny mugs. So tiny he'd go back for a second drink,
around forty five minutes into the day, whistling, stirring so
vigorously as to cause a spill, which he happily wiped up. That's a
good ten minutes gone, including the walk to and from the kitchen (as
leisurely as possible, especially on the way back-- spills on the
company carpet is an entirely different matter), fifteen if there was
a co-worker to talk to.
The double coffee would urge forth another pee, just before lunch but of course never actually during lunch. Steve peed with great care, even if the toilet block was completely empty he would never use the urinal, always the toilet cubicle, not out of shame. He peed straight and true into the bowl, sometimes skirting around the water, experimenting with the sounds he could make. He took his entire package out, balls and all, and tugged his boxers down so there was absolutely no pressure applied on his penile tubes, absolutely no chance of misfire. The steady stream would slow to a few drips. Steve dabs the tip of his dick with one, two, three sheets of paper, delicately, watching the tissue blot with moisture. He'd flush, wash his hands hospital style, sleeves rolled up. Soap up his palms, the backs of his hands, circled around his wrists. That's another seven minutes there, more if he drank water like a fiend, which he often did. In fact his boss often praised him for staying so well hydrated on the job, and aiming+throwing the empty water bottle into the bin was a fun 30 seconds off the day.
Steve would never use tissue to dry his hands, however, he did not want to be wasteful. Instead he turned to the blow-dryer-- ah the blow-dryer, such archaic technology! Steve would shake his head, and sigh happily when he first extracts his hands, still dripping wet. It always required a second go around. The loud jet noise was calming to him.
Lunch was an hour long. A glorious hour. Steve could walk outside-- outside the office building!-- and get burgers from the fast food chains that hovered around. Maybe another coffee, read some more of his book. Steve made sure not to be late back from lunch more than three times a week. On off or rainy days he could stay inside, talk to his co-workers, share jokes. Eat a sandwich he made the night before-- though this was rarer. Maybe watch some funny YouTube videos, or play a Flash game.
But it was the shit, the dump, he took, an hour after lunch, that he looked forward to the most. That made the whole day worthwhile. 1:00pm, 1300 hours, was zero hour. Steve's body had attuned itself to the office clock. Steve would be watching it, of course, watching the second hand tick tick ticking away, watch the minute hand climb the arduous climb of the second half of the hour. A gurgle would stir in the depths of his guts, his breakfast of eggs, canned spaghetti, bacon, two tomatoes, pepper, toast (buttered) hastily eaten on his way out the door to work, only half digested, still in big, wet chunky wads roaring within his intestines. He would excuse himself graciously, and walk with his head held high to the bathroom. It was clean, in there, white on white. It was like nobody else ever used it. It was his kingdom. He opened a cubicle door and admired his throne.
White. Open. Willing. Ever ready.
First, though, were some minor preparations. Every day he did this. He locked the cubicle door. He bent and withdrew six sheets worth of toilet paper. This he folded in half and lay on the left side of the seat. He drew another six sheets, folded, and placed it on the right, and again on the front and the back. A little square pillow. Steve undid his jeans front, unzipped, and in one movement turned, sat, and slid his pants 'round his ankles. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and sighed, and savoured that small moment of silence and respite. Then he sat straight and parted his legs. He unfurled some more tissue, rolled it softly into a casual ball, and dropped it into the water. This would provide his droppings with a net when they landed, preventing splashback. He could feel the shit putting pressure on his asshole, but that eternal conundrum-- to piss or shit first? Steve could pee now, relieve his bladder, but in doing so would weaken his safety net, increasing the danger of splashback. Worse yet, pee-splashback-- a most hideous factor. He could just pee on his shit, but that would mean he'd have to hold it back throughout the deed. Steve decided today to piss first. Today's shit held some gravity, and he wanted all of his concentration on its passing. As he peed his body relaxed and his mind, with Steve barely even realising it, wandered freely throughout imagination. For a second he thought he heard music.
Then came the shit itself. Sometimes at home Steve had trouble with his bowel movements, he would strain and push too hard, wanting to get back to whatever it was he was doing. Sometimes he would hastily sit, push one or two turds out, wipe and hurry back to his room, only to realise half an hour later he still had three more lurking in his nethers waiting to be evacuated. So he would have to shit again, and again, each time dabbing recklessly at his asshole, which only got more and more tender, and sometimes stayed sore for days. That was not the case with work shits.
These shits, these glorious, peaceful shits-- with these shits, Steve's asshole had time not only to prepare itself to stretch around larger and larger shits, but, critically, time to recover afterwards. Steve would not strain, no sir, with the work shits. He did not even have to pull a face. A warm calm would encapsulate him. The shits would not be pushed out, nor would they simply fall out. They would move with a slow serenity throughout Steve's body. His asshole would slowly fluctuate, accommodating for size, and they would slide out into the water, like a newborn into a loving husband's arms. His farts trumpeted proudly and heralded the coming of yet another son. Since it was the company paper, Steve could pause mid-shit to wipe himself, catch any stray nuggets caught in his ass hair. Because he had time to think and assess each shit, he found that if he paused and wiped himself before the final load, his asshole, stimulated, tingling, would relax, allowing it to handle even the greatest brown hot dog. He could use two, three, four, five, as many sheets as he liked, for company toilet paper is eternal and endless, to clean himself. Of course, a serious shitter would examine the day's discharge, noting consistency, colour, stench, and so on, to check for disease or irregularities. Steve was no such turd virtuoso, however, he was happy to participate but once it was finished he was equally happy to wash his hands of the entire business. The pillow, that had protected his butt skin from phantom co-workers' butt diseases, was swiped softly into the bowl, blanketing the payload from sight. Steve disliked touching his jeans and belt before being able to wash his hands, but there was always the chance someone could enter, so he did himself up, flushed twice, and finally walked out of the cubicle a lighter man.
The double coffee would urge forth another pee, just before lunch but of course never actually during lunch. Steve peed with great care, even if the toilet block was completely empty he would never use the urinal, always the toilet cubicle, not out of shame. He peed straight and true into the bowl, sometimes skirting around the water, experimenting with the sounds he could make. He took his entire package out, balls and all, and tugged his boxers down so there was absolutely no pressure applied on his penile tubes, absolutely no chance of misfire. The steady stream would slow to a few drips. Steve dabs the tip of his dick with one, two, three sheets of paper, delicately, watching the tissue blot with moisture. He'd flush, wash his hands hospital style, sleeves rolled up. Soap up his palms, the backs of his hands, circled around his wrists. That's another seven minutes there, more if he drank water like a fiend, which he often did. In fact his boss often praised him for staying so well hydrated on the job, and aiming+throwing the empty water bottle into the bin was a fun 30 seconds off the day.
Steve would never use tissue to dry his hands, however, he did not want to be wasteful. Instead he turned to the blow-dryer-- ah the blow-dryer, such archaic technology! Steve would shake his head, and sigh happily when he first extracts his hands, still dripping wet. It always required a second go around. The loud jet noise was calming to him.
Lunch was an hour long. A glorious hour. Steve could walk outside-- outside the office building!-- and get burgers from the fast food chains that hovered around. Maybe another coffee, read some more of his book. Steve made sure not to be late back from lunch more than three times a week. On off or rainy days he could stay inside, talk to his co-workers, share jokes. Eat a sandwich he made the night before-- though this was rarer. Maybe watch some funny YouTube videos, or play a Flash game.
But it was the shit, the dump, he took, an hour after lunch, that he looked forward to the most. That made the whole day worthwhile. 1:00pm, 1300 hours, was zero hour. Steve's body had attuned itself to the office clock. Steve would be watching it, of course, watching the second hand tick tick ticking away, watch the minute hand climb the arduous climb of the second half of the hour. A gurgle would stir in the depths of his guts, his breakfast of eggs, canned spaghetti, bacon, two tomatoes, pepper, toast (buttered) hastily eaten on his way out the door to work, only half digested, still in big, wet chunky wads roaring within his intestines. He would excuse himself graciously, and walk with his head held high to the bathroom. It was clean, in there, white on white. It was like nobody else ever used it. It was his kingdom. He opened a cubicle door and admired his throne.
White. Open. Willing. Ever ready.
First, though, were some minor preparations. Every day he did this. He locked the cubicle door. He bent and withdrew six sheets worth of toilet paper. This he folded in half and lay on the left side of the seat. He drew another six sheets, folded, and placed it on the right, and again on the front and the back. A little square pillow. Steve undid his jeans front, unzipped, and in one movement turned, sat, and slid his pants 'round his ankles. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and sighed, and savoured that small moment of silence and respite. Then he sat straight and parted his legs. He unfurled some more tissue, rolled it softly into a casual ball, and dropped it into the water. This would provide his droppings with a net when they landed, preventing splashback. He could feel the shit putting pressure on his asshole, but that eternal conundrum-- to piss or shit first? Steve could pee now, relieve his bladder, but in doing so would weaken his safety net, increasing the danger of splashback. Worse yet, pee-splashback-- a most hideous factor. He could just pee on his shit, but that would mean he'd have to hold it back throughout the deed. Steve decided today to piss first. Today's shit held some gravity, and he wanted all of his concentration on its passing. As he peed his body relaxed and his mind, with Steve barely even realising it, wandered freely throughout imagination. For a second he thought he heard music.
Then came the shit itself. Sometimes at home Steve had trouble with his bowel movements, he would strain and push too hard, wanting to get back to whatever it was he was doing. Sometimes he would hastily sit, push one or two turds out, wipe and hurry back to his room, only to realise half an hour later he still had three more lurking in his nethers waiting to be evacuated. So he would have to shit again, and again, each time dabbing recklessly at his asshole, which only got more and more tender, and sometimes stayed sore for days. That was not the case with work shits.
These shits, these glorious, peaceful shits-- with these shits, Steve's asshole had time not only to prepare itself to stretch around larger and larger shits, but, critically, time to recover afterwards. Steve would not strain, no sir, with the work shits. He did not even have to pull a face. A warm calm would encapsulate him. The shits would not be pushed out, nor would they simply fall out. They would move with a slow serenity throughout Steve's body. His asshole would slowly fluctuate, accommodating for size, and they would slide out into the water, like a newborn into a loving husband's arms. His farts trumpeted proudly and heralded the coming of yet another son. Since it was the company paper, Steve could pause mid-shit to wipe himself, catch any stray nuggets caught in his ass hair. Because he had time to think and assess each shit, he found that if he paused and wiped himself before the final load, his asshole, stimulated, tingling, would relax, allowing it to handle even the greatest brown hot dog. He could use two, three, four, five, as many sheets as he liked, for company toilet paper is eternal and endless, to clean himself. Of course, a serious shitter would examine the day's discharge, noting consistency, colour, stench, and so on, to check for disease or irregularities. Steve was no such turd virtuoso, however, he was happy to participate but once it was finished he was equally happy to wash his hands of the entire business. The pillow, that had protected his butt skin from phantom co-workers' butt diseases, was swiped softly into the bowl, blanketing the payload from sight. Steve disliked touching his jeans and belt before being able to wash his hands, but there was always the chance someone could enter, so he did himself up, flushed twice, and finally walked out of the cubicle a lighter man.
