by Lance Rider
Forced By The Photocopier
By Lance Rider
This erotic short story contains scenes of bareback sex. All fictional characters were screened for sexually transmitted infections before the writing of this publication, and the author urges all readers to use condoms and practice safe sex.
The author would also like to dissuade all readers from using their workplace’s photocopier or similar equipment inappropriately, and accepts no responsibility for dismissal or disciplinary proceedings taking place due to a reader of this publication photocopying their genitalia at work or copying any other activities or events described in this story.
©Lance Rider, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the author’s consent.
Forced By The Photocopier
“Late again, Mr Cooper,” said DeAngela flatly as I walked in, without looking up from her computer screen.
“And a good morning to you too, Miss Okonkwo,” I replied, “but please, Mr Cooper is my father. Call me Rhys.”
The receptionist frowned at me, not seeming to quite understand the very funny joke I had just made, before turning straight back to her computer.
“This is the second time you’ve been late this week.”
Was she still going on about that fact that I was late to work? That’s old news, love; calm down.
“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, “rules are made to be broken, you know?”
She looked up from the screen again, fixing with me a stern, disapproving look.
“Rules are rules,” she replied tartly, “they are there to be rigidly followed so that the company continues to run efficiently.”
“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed, rolling my eyes incredulously, “How are you still single?”
She didn’t have anything to say in response to that; she just blinked several times in a row very fast, before returning to her typing like the fucking robot that she was. Not literally, of course; DeAngela was a living, breathing human. She was just very boring.
I walked away from that awful woman with a heavy sigh, reached my desk and sat down; Andy popped up over the partition with a grin.
“Oi, Ginge,” he laughed, “you can’t be so fucking sassy to DeAngela! You know she’s gonna tell Graham.”
Andrew Wong was my best mate at work, and basically the only person in the office who wasn’t a boring wanker. He usually called me Ginge, Cooper or Coops, and only occasionally Rhys. There weren’t many nicknames I had for him that weren’t at least a little bit racist; Chinatown was probably my personal favourite. Noodles was another good one, as he’s quite tall (although most lads are tall compared to me; I’m only five foot seven). Graham was our boss, and I guess he was an alright guy; just painfully boring. DeAngela was always up his arse; she definitely must have been a prefect at school because she fucking acted like one.
“So what?” I shrugged, “Let her. What can she say?”
He shook his head with a grin; I smirked back at him.
“How was your weekend anyway, mate?” I asked, taking off my jacket and switching on my computer.
“Yeah, decent,” nodded Andy, “just went to the football with Mike, went to the gym, watched a film. And, like, fucked loads too. Obviously. How was yours? Did you speak to Heather?”
“Well, she came and got all her stuff,” I sighed, “but we didn’t really talk.”
Andy and his boyfriend Michael seemed to be the polar opposites of me and my on-again, off-again girlfriend Heather; their relationship seemed to consist of nothing but doing lad stuff, having a laugh and shagging each other’s brains out, whereas me and Heather just seemed to fall out with each other constantly. Sometimes I looked at the two of them when they were together, and felt like maybe I wanted that… not with another lad, obviously, but, you know… just a relationship like that. Fun. Easy. Relaxed. I mean, they went to the bloody football together all the time, and played video games, like, every other night. That’s the fucking dream, surely? I think I’d always expected (or hoped, at least) that by twenty-three, relationships would be mature and uncomplicated, but sadly, that didn’t seem to be the case; not for me, anyway.
“Mate…” Andy said softly, “that’s rough, man. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I shrugged, forcing a smile, “it’s fine.”
He looked at me as if he wanted to say something else on the matter, but he knew me well enough by now to be able to tell from my body language that I didn’t feel like talking about it.
“Have you seen the new photocopier yet?” He asked, thankfully changing the subject.
“No, not yet,” I frowned, glancing over to where Andy was pointing, “Graham sent an email round about it, didn’t he?”
I could see a very new and shiny looking photocopier at the other end of the office. Metaphorically shiny, of course, because it was new. It wasn’t literally gleaming in the sunlight. Well, the artificial office lighting. You get what I mean, shut up. It all looked very modern and high tech; Sandra was standing next to it with a confused look on her face, pushing buttons really cautiously, as though she thought the whole thing might explode at any second if she pressed the wrong one, and looked mildly terrified the whole time. Classic Sandra.
“Yeah,” replied Andy, “mate, he’s practically jizzing in his pants over it. He’s well excited. So’s DeAngela.”
“Yeah, I bet she fucking is,” I smirked, “DeAngela’s probably not been this wet since she fell in the toilet at the Christmas party.”
“Yeah, probably,” laughed Andy, “they’re the only ones though; everyone else is just annoyed they have to learn how to use something new.”
It was at this moment that Graham, our boss and King of Boringville, unfortunately happened to come over. He’s your classic middle-aged, bald loser. I mean, yeah, alright, I guess that sounds quite mean; he’s in decent enough shape for his age and he’s not actually ugly or anything. In fact, he grew a beard recently which was definitely an improvement on his whole look, but he also cycles to work in one of those awful all-in-one lycra situations, which along with his fucking bland-arse, bargain bucket glasses, badly-fitting shirts, and slightly too-wide ties, definitely cancels out whatever good the new beard was doing. He also does that annoying thing that too many balding guys are guilty of in my opinion; he still allows the hair he does have left to exist. I don’t understand why they think just clipping the back and sides short is enough; just fucking shave it all completely. At least if you go fully bald, it’s a choice. You’re making a statement. And especially with his new beard, going for a fully shaved head might actually work pretty well.
“Morning, lads,” he announced cheerfully, “have you had the chance to take a gander at the MegaPrint 3000?”
He’d already managed to piss me off before even reaching the halfway point of this sentence; I mean, mate, why are you calling us “lads”? I mean, I know we are lads, but you’re not; you’re like, forty. Stop trying to relate to us. Also, MegaPrint 3000? Stupid name. Also, “take a gander”? What year do you think this is?! I wanted to tell him to fuck off and take his sad lycra with him, but obviously that would have been unwise.
“No, I haven’t had the chance yet, Graham. Can’t wait to use it.” I said this as pleasantly as I could, and actually surprised myself at how well I did.
“Yeah, it’s fantastic, dude,” he replied enthusiastically (ugh, don’t call me dude), “proper high tech and stuff. Touch screen and everything. Brilliant!”
“Brilliant…” I repeated, using the word with significantly less enthusiasm than he had. I deliberately didn’t say a whole sentence because I was hoping that sticking to just the one word would make him go away; far away,
in fact, if that was an option. And for a moment, it looked like my wish might just come true; he turned away, unfairly implying that he was about to go off and leave us in peace, before changing his mind and turning to face us again. The bloody tease.
“Oh, and Rhys…” Ooh, another thought had come to him. Fantastic! We got to have more time with Graham! Lucky us! “I think you might have been a bit late again today.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes and show him my middle finger, and instead pretended to look surprised.
“Oh, was I?” I said, as if the very idea of me being late to work hadn’t even occurred to me, “I could have been by a minute or two, maybe. Sorry about that.”
“Well, I think it was actually a bit more than a minute or two,” continued Graham, doing his best impression of a rubbish supply teacher, “you were actually late by six minutes today, Rhys. And this seems to be a recurring problem with you. So let’s try and sort that out, shall we, bro?”
My stomach twisted in anger and I genuinely wanted to punch him in his stupid face when he called me “bro”. Thankfully I managed to control myself and even forced a smile.
“Of course, Graham,” I said stiffly, with a fixed, fake grin on my face that probably looked terrifying, “I won’t let it happen again.”
“Good,” nodded Graham; he seemed satisfied, and looked for a moment like he might leave, but unfortunately, this did not come to pass. He spoke again. “Also, mate, I was hoping you could… er, modify your wardrobe a little when you come to work.”
“Modify?” I had to repeat a word that he’d used because if I allowed myself to choose a new one for myself it would probably be “no”, or “wanker”, or possibly even “cunt”.
“Yeah, modify. If that’s alright, dude,” he continued, “I’m not saying you don’t look cool, because you do.” I sighed inwardly; Graham was trying to relate to me again. “But sadly, “cool”, “hip” or “funky” is not always totally appropriate for a work environment.”
I was internally screaming by this point at the use of such foul language; he even used air quotes. Sorry; “air quotes”. I was dressed today how I would usually dress for work; dark skinny jeans, black Old Skools, a polo shirt and a Harrington jacket. It’s a bit on the casual side, sure, but I think it’s fairly formal; it was all black or navy, and it was clear that I’d made the effort to look nice. I mean, yeah, we worked in an office, but I didn’t have to deal with clients or anything. I had to physically fight the urge to tell Graham that we weren’t back in his day anymore, when children had to be seen and not heard, and that he should leave me alone to dress how I wanted, but I had to control myself again.
“I’m sorry about that, Graham,” I replied flatly, “what would you like me to change?”
“Well, I’d rather you didn’t wear jeans and trainers,” he said, wringing his hands awkwardly as though he was telling a small child not to put their hands down their pants, “and I’m still not sure about that new nose ring of yours.”
“Oh, I know, Graham, it’s so annoying,” I sighed, as though I was just as exasperated as he was, “but I can’t change the ring for six months until the piercing’s fully healed.”
I’d had my septum pierced a couple of months ago; to be fair, I could probably get away with changing the ring without it closing up, but I had an excuse not to, so I’d continue to resist Workplace Oppression for as long as I could. I’d already changed both my ear piercings to plainer ones for him, and my lobes were only stretched to six millimetres anyway, so they barely even counted as the “extreme body modification” that he seemed to think they were.
“Right, well…” He didn’t seem sure how to make me change my mind.
“But I’ll try not to wear trainers again though, Graham,” I cut in, trying to wrap things up as quickly and as painlessly as I could, “but good chat though, Graham, cheers mate. See you later.”
I started typing nonsense into my computer as though I was really invested in what I was doing, when in fact I didn’t even have any windows open yet. Graham hovered there awkwardly for a few seconds, before making a sort of grunt that sounded like it was probably supposed to be words, and eventually wandered off.
I know it might be hard to believe, but I don’t actually like work. I doss about and skive off a lot; me and Andy fuck about quite a bit, write notes to each other and chuck things over the partition and stuff. We have to be careful sometimes so that Graham or DeAngela don’t see us and make us move further away from each other (or make us sit next to girls; yuck!). It’s like fucking school in here sometimes. Or prison. So anyway, I was dossing about as usual (within reason, of course), but I’d act really focused and hardworking when Graham came past; this was partly so I wouldn’t get bollocked but mostly so that he wouldn’t try and talk to me about the new bloody photocopier again. He kept trapping people by it whenever they had to wait for something to print, and just go on and on about all its new features.
“Captures the most amazing HD images!” I heard him exclaim to some poor sod for what felt like the millionth time.
“Bet it can capture the most amazing HD image of my dick,” I muttered darkly to myself.
I heard Andy snigger through the partition.
“Mate, you should do it,” he laughed.
“Fuck off, man,” I snorted with a grin, “obviously I can’t actually do that.”
“Why not?” He teased, “Don’t tell me you’re too much of a pussy. Go on, Coops. I dare you.”
Oh, man… if only he hadn’t dared me. I could never resist a dare. It used to get me into so much trouble at school; I’d even been suspended a couple of times thanks to stupid shit I’d done ‘cause some idiot had dared me to. And this stupid shit usually involved stinkbombs or laxatives; juvenile, sure, but bloody classic.
“Well, I’ll do it,” I shrugged, “I ain’t a pussy, mate. But you’re gonna have to sort out a diversion.”
“Done,” he grinned, “it’s Linda’s birthday. I’ll get the cake.”
He jumped up and practically ran over to Graham like an excited puppy. I just about heard him say, “Graham, shall I grab Linda’s cake and round everyone up?” and Graham saying something cringey in response, involving the words “dude,” “mate,” and “groovy”. God, I wanted to fucking murder him sometimes.
I made my way over to the new photocopier, tentatively watching Andy gather everyone in the office up as they lit the candles on the birthday cake and prepared to bring it over to Linda; I had a minute, tops. Once I was up close to it, the MegaPrint 3000 was actually quite impressive; our old photocopier had just been a boxy beige thing that creaked and sort of rattled whenever you made it print anything, but this one looked so modern, sleek even. It was all white and silver, with this glossy new touch screen; it looked almost like something out of a spaceship on a science fiction movie. I glanced furtively backwards to make sure no one was watching; they were all around Linda’s desk now, about to start singing Happy Birthday. I tried tapping the touch screen to select what I wanted to do, but it wanted verification of some sort; I remembered that stupid app Graham had made us all download (“You can make it print things direct from your phone! Fantastic!”) and hurriedly opened it up. I held my phone over the touch screen and it scanned almost instantly, recognising me with a ping sound effect. Okay, that was efficient. Opening up the cover and clambering onto the machine as best I could, I pressed “photocopy” on the touch screen, unzipped my jeans, got my cock out and slapped it onto the glass. With a very smooth whir, the machine scanned my dick and balls swiftly and printed out a single copy. I glanced backwards again to check no one had seen, hopped off the machine and stuffed my cock back in my jeans. The others were just beginning to cut the cake and wander off as I retrieved the sheet of paper; fuck me… that really was an amazing HD image. You could see every vein and every single one of my ginger pubes; they even matched the exact shade perfectly. I was starting to see why Graham had such a boner for this thing. Not saying I ag
reed with him, just saying I could see why he was impressed.
When I got back to my desk, Andy appeared over the partition immediately with a massive grin on his face.
“So,” he smirked, “did you do it?”
I grinned back at him and nodded.
“Maaaate!” He exclaimed, fist-bumping me, “You’re such a fucking lad, man. Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
I passed him the sheet of paper over the partition; he passed me back a piece of Linda’s birthday cake.
“Shouldn’t have called me a pussy, Chinatown,” I chuckled, “I’ll do anything if someone calls me a pussy.”
“You’ve actually got a well nice cock, man,” he said thoughtfully, nodding approvingly at the photocopy, “I’ll have to add that to my wank bank for later!”
He laughed as if he was joking, so I laughed too. He was just joking, right?
The rest of the day went ahead as usual; I fucked about a bit, worked a bit, then finished and went home, where I had some dinner, played some video games and had a wank. And everything was normal for most of the evening, until I glanced at my phone to see a notification from the photocopier app saying I’d received a message. I opened it up with a frown and felt my stomach drop at what I saw. It was a photo of my dick, with the message, “you placed this image on the clipboard earlier today. Would you like to keep it?” I froze for a moment, then clicked “no”. The app buffered for a second, then an error message appeared; “sorry, there seems to have been a problem. We were unable to delete the image. It has been saved onto your unit.” Fuck. I felt a bit sick. The unit must mean the actual photocopier, right? What the fuck was I supposed to do now? I tried to delete the image three more times and the same thing just kept happening. The only plan of action I could think of was to get to work early tomorrow and delete it from the photocopier manually, and hope that no one else had seen it.
I did sleep that night, but not well; I woke up thirty minutes before my alarm was set to go off with an instant, sinking feeling of dread gnawing at the pit of my stomach. I tried not to think about the overly large, overly HD image of my junk that was saved onto the photocopier as I got ready for work, but it was always there in the back of my mind. I walked into the office with baited breath, just as DeAngela was taking off her coat; she blinked several times at me very fast, clearly stunned that I’d arrived nearly as early as she had. I headed straight for the photocopier with my heart beginning to race, but was unfortunately intercepted by Graham.
