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He was still asleep as I drew back the covers, and still soft when I slipped him into my mouth. I held him there for a moment, acquainting myself with his unique flavor, and enjoying his quiescence, the calm before the storm of the erection that I knew would soon be filling my throat. I slipped my hand across his balls, to balance the very base of his shaft, and began to work him with my lips.

Tentatively at first; the idea was not to startle him awake with a sense-shattering orgasm, but to draw him slowly from his sleep, feel him growing harder and heavy on my tongue; and feel, too, the changes that I knew would manifest the moment he awoke, and comprehended what was happening.

Guys are funny. Some try and pretend they're still sleeping, as though afraid that awakening will bring an end to their bliss. Others almost startle you with the manic transformation from sleeping babe to rampant sex god. And others just move gently to the music, with an appreciative sigh or a gentle caress, enough to inform you they're in the land of the living, but that's all. To be honest, those are my favorite times. But half the fun lies in wondering. And the other half lies in actually being there - which, in this case, I most certainly wasn't.

An excited voice almost wet itself with delight. "So, what did you do?"

The other, aping cool, but no less fevered, laughed. "Oh dude, I flipped her over and I gave the hardest fucking of her life."

"Man. I wish I had dreams like that."

It's astonishing how little privacy you have in modern office buildings. Not privacy in the way you'd expect it at home; just the little creature comforts that you'd hope would seem natural in a civilized society. Things like being able to go to the rest room that your company shares with four others on the same floor, without overhearing a couple of the mailroom guys in the men's room next door, discussing their latest horny fantasies.

Which is bad enough when all you want to do is have a pee and get back to your desk. But it's even worse when you catch the conversation's end, and discover who the object of the fantasy is; the name of the midnight fellatrix who stole into a spotty youth's bedroom and brought him to life with a Blowjob Supreme.

"Yeah, that Bentley woman's hot. But man, she must be old enough to be your mother." (Ouch.)

"Older chicks are great. They're experienced, dude. I mean, can you imagine how many cocks that chick has choked on?" (Excuse me? I have never choked on a cock in my life. Gagged a little once or twice, maybe, but choked? Fuck you.) "She could suck you in and blow you out in bubbles." (Okay, yes. I have done that.)

"Well, I'd certainly give her a night to remember." And so and so forth in a similar vein, while I sat on the other side of that wafer thin dividing wall, hearing every word and, with all thoughts of my waiting work now forgotten, blazing with a rage I'd not felt in a long time.

Look, I'm not a prude, and I know how guys talk. Yes, I might even be flattered under the right circumstances. But extreme youth - and this pair couldn't have been more than 20, 21... I think they were college interns... has an arrogance and a braggadocio that has never appealed to me, not even when I was that age myself. And, if I myself can be arrogant for a second, the nights I remember best are always the ones where I pull something unexpected out of the hat.

I was still fuming when I walked back into the office, and punched the keyboard so hard that my screensaver shit itself. I looked at the letters that hung on my screen. Fuck them. Three first-time authors who were going to receive a warm invitation to submit their book proposals to the publisher I worked for were instead on the end of the most scathing rejection note in the database. And, though I knew I'd relent before the letters were posted, so no budding careers were really destroyed, still it felt good to crush their dreams, however fleetingly. Well, I had to take it out on someone...

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