I’ve always operated under a strict ‘no masturbation at work’ policy. This restriction was, of course, self-imposed, given that most fortune five-hundred companies leave that particular guideline out of the employee handbook.

But when you work in a stressful office environment, constantly trying to hammer out last-minute presentations, or close major deals with prominent clients, it’s tough not to want to slip away for a few minutes and relieve a little tension.

I had maintained my ‘no self-gratification oath’ for nearly two years at my present job. On dozens of occasions I had been nearly overwhelmed by the desire to slip off to the men’s room and jerk one out, but I had upheld my reputation as a testament to the strength of human will by always restraining myself, denying my urges until I was home – or at least on the way home.

But all that changed last June when the copier crashed and we had to call in an emergency repairman. The day had started off bad, and by the time the copier crashed, it had spiraled into near catastrophe. We had two major clients coming in that afternoon, and in addition to the usual stress of preparing to pitch a deal, my secretary had just turned in her two-weeks notice because her postal worker husband was getting transferred to another state, and now the damnable copier was malfunctioning. It’s tough to convince a client to sign a contract when you can’t even show him the contract!

Fortunately, our office equipment supplier was able to rush over a serviceman to take a look at the Xerox. I have to admit, I, like most others, had the preconception of a photo-copier fix-it guy as being a middle-aged, overweight, furry, balding guy who grunted and wheezed, displaying inordinate amounts of ass-crack while he crouched and jostled the machine into working order.

Much to my surprise, however, the fellow who arrived, sporting a tight, crisp light-blue work shirt and snug-fitting navy uniform shorts and carrying a brushed metal attaché tool caddy, was quite the antithesis of my preconception. His embroidered nametag read ‘Jonesy’, and I was jonesing for Jonesy pretty hard.

His thick, tussled, golden-brown locks jostled atop his smooth, tanned brow, splaying down across his forehead just out of reach of those deep, crow-footed Clooney eyes of his. His grin was a real man-killer, or lady-killer as was likely more Jonesy’s case, with long dimples and a perfect set of glistening white teeth between full, plump, rosy lips.

He stood about my height, just over six feet, and had big, round, broad shoulders that stretched his snug work shirt, forcing it to bunch up in his armpits as his sleeves couldn’t accommodate the girth of his well-muscled arms and shoulders. Likewise, the buttons running the length of the upper half of his shirt bunched where the fabric was pulled taunt, stretching across his thick, blocked pecs, seemingly ready to burst at any moment.

My eyes still absorbing the image of this unanticipated vision, I tracked down from his chest and shoulders to his thin, fit torso and tight stomach. There wasn’t the slightest protrusion where his shirt tucked behind the belt securing his snug, navy work-shorts, letting me know he likely sported washboard abs under that shirt, given that the slightest amount of belly bulge would have pulled his shirt out with all the bending and crouching he must do in his job.

I continued to lust over young Jonesy, undressing him